


Shenanigans

by LizardWhisperer



Series: Shenanigans [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Brats - Freeform, Gen, No Sex, Nonsense, Original Character(s), Sam's the big little brother, Spanking, Team Dean Winchester's Red Ass, Torture, Witches, not THIS time, spanking of minors except neither really is--so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-24 15:56:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 28,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20708672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardWhisperer/pseuds/LizardWhisperer
Summary: This is an SPN SPANKING fic.S14: The Winchesters have returned from the Apocalypse World with Jack, Cas, and a pissload of hunters in tow.  Oh yeah, PLUS the Archangel Michael, who's in the market for a new vessel.  How will they hide Michael's sword?  It's the life and times of a de-aged teen Dean, a human Jack, and the world’s oldest witch. And (somehow) Lucifer's vessel is around (Hell, the show didn't explain it, so what do I know?).





	1. What the Hell, Sammy?

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this fic at the start of season 14, but as the episodes aired, the canon seriously tripped up my muse--so I put her to bed. I swore I'd finish this work before season 15 started, so I dusted her off and here she is. Having rusted for so long, she might be a little clunky here and there, but I'll do my best to oil her up.  
Oh, there is a MAJOR continuity error where the canon stuck its head into my fic, without asking--I'll explain when we get there.

“Dude, you look like wet bread.”

Sam smoothed back his uncombed hair and scrubbed a hand over his beard, with a huff. “Not surprised, I hunted all day, then _spent all night _looking for you two.”

Towering over the teens, the hunter had no need to raise his voice—but there was no mistaking—Sam was pissed.

“Me and Jack were just following a lead. Turned out it wasn’t even a real hunt—an _actual_ animal attack, go figure. We’re fine. You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

“You know, Dean, here’s the thing—I do. With Cas _somewhere_ in Europe, tracking Michael, I’ve got the training, whereabouts, and safety of dozens of hunters on my hands. They’re all my responsibility and _our Mom_ is one of those hunters, Dean. Plus, there’s super-monsters I’ve got to figure out how to kill and demons scrapping over the throne of Hell.” Sam counted off these reasons, on his fingers. “Oh, and get this, Lucifer might be gone, but his vessel strolled out the front door. I don’t have time for your damn teen spirit.” 

About halfway through his brother’s lecture, Dean rolled his eyes, turned toward Jack, and started to mock the haranguing, by flapping his mouth like a robot. When Dean pretended to toss his invisible hair, Jack could no longer keep a straight face. But the curtain went down on Dean’s comedy show as a huge hand grabbed his bony shoulder and shook him so hard his teeth rattled.

“What the Hell, Sammy?” Dean pulled loose of his now much bigger little brother’s grip, plaintively straightening his AC/DC sweatshirt. “Never thought I’d fit in this again and now you wanna wreck it?”

Dean was telling the truth. Close to twenty years ago he had been so enamored with his outgrown concert sweatshirt that he stashed it in one of his Dad’s storage lockers. Graced again with a youthful frame, Dean Winchester had hopped a bus across the state of Kansas to retrieve his faded black prize—and found a bonus duffel bag of high school clothes. The teen returned triumphant with his treasure, but Sam, his Mom, and Bobby were waiting at the bus station—unimpressed. The adults took turns bawling him out, all the way back to the bunker, then continued to tell him off in shifts, the rest of the week. At least it was just Sam this time, though Dean was starting to think his brother was aiming for overtime.

“What the Hell, Sammy? _What the Hell, Sammy_? Try what the Hell, _Dean_? I know Rowena’s spell has side-effects, but can you just _try _to stop acting how you look, for five minutes? And Jack, I’m used to more out of you than these…teenage shenanigans.”

“Sammy, did you just say shenanigans?”

“It’s _Sam_.”

“Aw c’mon, seriously, man? We both know I’m the only one—”

“You _were_ the only one—my big brother was the only one who could call me that. Until you_ act_ like my big brother again, it’s Sam.”

Jack cleared his throat, “But, uh, Sam, we _are_ teenagers.”

“But you’re also hunters, Jack—and Dean knows better. If he had tried to pull this bullshit on our Dad, he’d have had his ass handed to him, quick.”

Dean folded his thin arms, “Don’t you try to lay your Dad crap on me, _Sam_,” the name left the boy’s lips like something bitter, “Just because you made a career out of pissing the old man off, doesn’t mean I went out of my way to get whupped as much as you did.”

“That’s just my point, Dean—you were the obedient one. No idea where this wild child streak came from.”

“Rowena’s spell.”

“We only had Rowena cast that spell to keep you safe from Michael.”

“Right, I know,” Dean copped an attitude with a high-pitched Scottish brogue, “_This wee y’ung vessel is no longer the archangel’s powerful sword_.”

“Yeah, and you know the plan was to make you a lot younger, but you were all, _No, Sam, I don’t need a freakin’ babysitter_! Both boys smirked at Sam’s throaty Dean impression, “and then you’ve got the gall go off alone.”

“It turned out to be nothing, I wasn’t in any danger, and I wasn’t alone, I was with a Nephilim—so what are you all sandy vagina about?”

Sam scowled, but soldiered on, “Jack _was_ a Nephilim. Dean, are you hearing yourself? Rowena’s spell can cause personality regression and you’re thinking is too immature right now to know that two teens hunting alone _are_ in danger. The first time you were fifteen, I don’t remember my big brother acting this way—you followed orders. And Jack, I’ve never seen this sort of behavior from you.”

The young man shrugged, “I’ve never been human before and besides, I’m about a year old, really. I think I’m entitled to a childhood.”

Dean’s freckled face burst into laughter, doubling over to catch his breath.

“Th-that’s it, Sam. I’m entitled to a childhood, too, dont’cha think?”

Now both teens were laughing, Jack pulling up the collar of his t-shirt, trying to hide his face.

Sam was not amused.

“Go to your rooms. No music, no TV, no computers. Give me your phones.”

Jack’s expression sobered, but Dean threw his head back in an exaggerated guffaw.

“You’re so full of shit, S—”

As Dean was unceremoniously hauled away by the back of his shirt, the rest of his brother’s name hung in the air, behind him. Jack stared at the spot where Dean had been, the ‘_am_’ sound seemingly still suspended there, but responded quickly when the _whole_ Sam bellowed, “Jack, move!”

Sam didn’t let go of his wriggling brother until they were in Dean’s room, with the door closed.

“Son of a bitch.” The rumpled teen frantically smoothed at the deep wrinkles in his favorite old concert hoodie. Dean huffed another curse, as he hiked up his drooping sweatpants.

Sam paid his sulking brother little mind, as he began to collect his electronics.

“Asshole.”

Across the room, Sam brandished Dean’s TV remote, menacingly.

“Call me what you want, Dean, make jokes, laugh in my face, but you are staying in this room until further notice.”

Balling up his fists, the teen stared at the rug and fumed, “Bullshit. I can break in anywhere, so _you know_ I can break out. You wanna stand guard, you can kiss sleep goodbye tonight, too, cuz I’m—"

_SSSHHHTHWIP_!

Dean’s head snapped up at the familiar sound, just in time to see Sam pull the end of his leather belt from its loops.

“Sam…are you fucking with me?”

Bitchface number twenty-two stared back at Dean, as his brother doubled the belt.

“Do I look like I’m fucking with you, Dean?”

“I’m not a kid, you can’t do this,” Dean felt panic, but tried to wax nonchalant, “I don’t think you _will_ do it, Sammy.”

“You _are_ a kid, Dean. And I _can_, and _I will_,” Sam moved swiftly, his long legs closing the space in two strides. Dean had the nerve to look shocked, stepping back too late to escape the taller man’s long reach. This time, Sam grabbed him by the upper arm. Without dropping the belt, his other hand yanked Dean’s sweatshirt up over his head.

“Wouldn’t want to damage this collector’s item.”

Sam loosened his grip momentarily to pull the shirt free from Dean’s arm and the teen stole the opportunity to twist free and back clumsily away from his larger brother. Dean had only been this young again for a handful of weeks and while he enjoyed the extra energy, he found it was a trade for awkward teen coordination. Scrambling backwards was hard enough on a good day, but Dean’s new body didn’t only suffer from growing pains. As Sam’s angry towering frame bore down on him, doubled belt in hand—Dean was scared. For the first time in his life, Dean was afraid of his brother. Fear can do funny things. There’s fight or flight—then there’s that third, troublesome reaction— deer in the headlights. 

Dean, the poor deer, frozen as he was, didn’t even know he had lost his footing and fallen. He recoiled from the enormous hand that reached toward him. 

Sam crouched and sat on his heels, “Hey. Hey, Dean, c’mon. You're ok, Dean. It’s me, it’s Sam. _Sammy_.”

Dean felt his brother’s warm hand on his back and realized, in horror he was curled on his side.

Sam slowly helped the shaken teen to his feet and led him to sit on his bed. 

“You ok, bro?”

Dean sniffled a bit, “Stupid spell.”


	2. Blitzkrieg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this was a spanking fic, right?

“I’m sorry, Dean. I know that was low, scaring you like that, but you had to see it for yourself. What if that had been a hunt?”

“Ha, mighty hunter, shaking like a friggin’ baby.”

Sam put an arm around his brother’s shoulder, “Did you really think I would hurt you, Dean?”

The two sat in silence a minute.

“Yeah, guess I did.”

Sam softened his voice, “Well, I wouldn’t—at least I wouldn’t use this,” Sam slid the belt back in its loops, “I’m not Dad, Dean. But I do think you should be punished, for your own good.”

“Sam, do you have to talk like that?”

“Dean, we researched this spell fully, so we know it’s messing with your mind. You’re thinking like a kid and acting like a kid. It’s not that I don’t normally trust you, but I certainly don’t trust your judgment or your impulsiveness right now.”

“It’s the damn kid spell.”

“It _is_ the damn kid spell. Makes you act like a kid, Dean. So, get this—what does a kid do when he’s punished?”

Dean gave an embarrassed shrug, “I don’t know. If he gets his ass busted, he gets pissed, embarrassed—it hurts.”

“That’s how he _feels_, but what does he do?”

Dean squirmed, uncomfortable with this whole talk, “I don’t know, cry, I guess.”

“After that.”

“He, uh…um…I don’t know, Sam.”

“He _behaves_, Dean. Avoiding punishment makes a kid behave better.”

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’ll do what you say. I’ve been a real brat.”

Sam straightened up his shoulders, “Yes, yes you have. You see? Fear of punishment made you change your attitude, that’s just how the spell is supposed to work.”

“I’m not scared—”

Sam ignored Dean’s front, “But what I still don’t think you realize is that you don’t have total control over your behavior—the spell does. So, the spell will continue to make you a brat—until you are treated like one. Corrected. I’m sorry, kiddo, but as cliché as it sounds, it’s for your own good.”

Dean stared blankly as his brother patted his lap.

“Are you fucking with me?”

Sam sighed the sigh of a man in charge of dozens of hunters, the devil’s missing skin, and fighting an archangel—and now had to spank his little big brother.

This was a very big sigh, indeed.

“Are we back to that, Dean?”

Something odd was happening inside Dean—something that was making this not seem so unreasonable. Damn spell. He had an inexplicable urge to obey Sam, but he felt like that damn deer again. He just couldn’t move. His brother must have understood because strong hands slid under Dean’s thin arms. The young hunter felt like he was in a dream as he was lifted and gently placed across his brother’s broad lap. A reassuring hand pressed on his back, as another rested on the seat of his sweatpants. The boy shuddered.

“Sammy, please.”

“Shhh, it’s ok,” Sam’s hand drew brief circles on Dean’s trembling back, “I’ve got you, Dean.”

Dean was fine. He was going to be fine. 

SMACK!

“Ow! Hey!” that was _not_ fine.

SMACK!

“Ahhh!”

Two spanks and Sam’s huge mitt had already run out of real estate. He hated to do it, but he landed the next spank on top of the first.

SMACK!

“Yeow! C’mon.”

Sam eased his brother onto his left knee and aimed a spank on fresh ground, right where his brother sat.

SMACK!

“Owww! Owww! Oooowww!!!”

Dean kicked his legs, wildly. This sucked.

SMACK!

Another low-blow and Dean yowled his misery, bouncing on his brother’s lap, kicking and blinking back tears. Dean looked over his shoulder to see just what Sam was wielding and was horrified to see just his brother’s empty hand, headed towards his ass.

SMACK!

“Auuuugh! Noooo!”

Sam was becoming concerned—his brother used to take belt lickings from their Dad at this age, with nowhere near this level of feedback. He had told his brother he wouldn’t harm him, beyond reasonable punishment. Sam patted the teen’s sweaty back and slipped his finger under the waistband of his sweats. Dean’s protests were shushed with the weight of familiar fingers stroking through his hair, while his poor backside was divested of its protection.

“Sssh, I just want to be sure not to hurt you.”

Dean’s voice was watery and he sniffled loudly, “Newsflash.”

“Sore and injured are not the same thing, wise guy.”

Dean’s teen bottom was small and round, made of soft, defenseless curves, packaged in light blue briefs. Just below the darker blue piping, Dean’s sit spots glowed pink, a barely discernable outline of fingers near one freckled hip.

Huh. With Dean screaming like a banshee (close, anyway--the real deal can make you deaf), Sam half expected to find him black and blue. It must be the way the spell affected him. While Dean oozed teen attitude, as Sam had proven, the kid lacked emotional maturity. “We have a ways to go, Dean.”

“No more.”

Sadly resolute, Sam shook his head, anchored Dean’s back, then raised his hand.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

Sam found a rhythm and Dean sang soprano. The boy howled, screeched, begged, and kicked to beat the band.

Sam kept a careful eye on Dean’s pink skin, but for all the boy’s hollering, it just got pinker. 

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

Dean’s voice grew hoarse from wailing and his long, drawn out cries dissolved into wretched sobbing.

Sam again petted his brother’s back and head, gently running his spanking hand over Dean’s heated bottom.

“Almost done, kiddo. Easy, Dean, I gotcha.”

Dean sobbed even more piteously at his brother’s words.

Hesitantly, Sam hooked Dean’s underpants and eased them down, revealing an evenly reddened bottom. Sam patted his brother’s little freckles, knowing it would be a one-time liberty, before he carefully ran his fingers over heated, spanked skin. No bruises, no welts. Gripping the boy’s waist, Sam tucked Dean under his long arm and eased his target higher on his left knee. 

John Winchester had always spanked his sons until they sobbed, then began the lecture. That’s when he delivered a final round—fast, _hard_, and thoroughly aimed at making a long Impala ride suck.

During Sam’s ministrations, Dean had lain still, his bare rump throbbing, but as Sam tightened his arm around his brother’s narrow frame, the boy again turned up the volume.

“P-please, Sammy, I know wh-what you’re gonna do. Please, I’ll do what you say, I’ll be good, I p-p-prom…” The rest was lost to tears.

More than anything, Sam did not want to have do this ever again. Hearing Dean’s cries, while knowing he was causing them, tore at his heart. Sam loved his brother more than any living thing on the planet. His belief that this punishment would help curb the spell’s dangerous influence had been the only thing keeping him on task. Sam wouldn’t lose Dean, not to some spell that made him act the fool—not if keeping his brother alive and safe only cost the teen a tender backside.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, right now, but I’m keeping you safe, Dean. You know I love you.” 

With that, Sam concentrated his attention on his red, round target and fired away.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“While you’re under this spell, you are a child, Dean.”

The spanks fell in time with the lecture.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“When I tell you not to do something, it’s for your safety.”

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“Every time you disobey me, you’ll end up right—”

WHACK!

“back—”

WHACK!

“here.”

WHACK!

Dean screamed as the first few spanks scorched his raw backside, dead center. Then the rest literally took his breath away and he choked for air through his sobs. The agonized boy didn’t even notice when the Blitzkrieg on his rear had ended.

Sam stroked Dean’s hitching back slowly, as the boy recovered his voice and squalled his discomfort. Sliding his arms under his distressed brother, Sam lifted Dean to his chest, where he buried his wet, red face into Sam’s flannel. He cried there until his tears ran out, cradled in his brother’s lap. Dean held a death-grip on the front of Sam’s shirt, twisting the fabric and shuddering with the aftershocks of such a long, anguished sob. 

Sam rocked his brother for nearly an hour, the only sounds Dean’s sniffles and the occasional whisper, “I’ve got you, Dean.”


	3. Genius

Dean lay on his memory foam, belly-down, trying to make sense of his day. Sam had long ago retired to his own room and the prospect of a few blessed hours of sleep, only leaving after helping Dean out of his sweats and into bed. Lying there, with his butt aching more than he ever thought possible, Dean sought to reconcile the brother who stroked his hair and kissed his forehead goodnight with the brother who lit his ass on fire. Sam was a big guy, with big muscles, and a gargantuan hand—but how had that spanking come from Sam Winchester? Dean had stolen a peek—he could have sworn his brother was using a hairbrush, or a paddle—or even a gigantic elastic band. That first smack and the needle flew off Dean’s pain meter—but he couldn’t say so! Oh, sure, he could make noise, and make noise he did, but when he tried to tell Sam what he was feeling, he just _couldn’t_. It all came out as screams.

Something was rotten in Kansas. Even after the ordeal was over, Dean’s mouth simply wouldn’t form the words. Even now, thinking hard about it, something didn’t feel right—like Dean was simply not supposed consider the subject. WTF?

There was a rapping on his door and Dean turned to see it open up a smidge. Through the smidge poked Jack’s face.

“Can I come in?”

Dean wanted to tell the kid where he and his all-night animal-attack-non-hunt could go, though he knew it had been just as much his idea. Still, nobody refuses company when their ass hurts.

“Yeah, ok. But keep it down, Sam’s in bed.”

Jack slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“I was in bed, but couldn’t sleep.”

Dean propped himself up on his elbows, “You don’t say. Thought you might’ve been out mowing the lawn in your boxers.”

Though he’d tried to hide it, Jack caught Dean’s wince.

“Does it hurt that badly?”

Dean blushed and looked down at his pillow, “So, that’s why you’re up. Heard it, huh?”

Jack chanced a smirk, “Dean, most of the mid-west heard it.”

“Thanks, asshat. Wait ‘til you get your ass beat, let’s see how stoic you are.”

“No, thank you. That sounded just awful—like torture.”

“Naw, it wasn’t that bad.”

But that’s not what Dean meant to say. What Dean meant to say was more along the lines of _It was the worst spanking of my life. Sam’s hand felt like a hot frying pan. _He tried to correct himself, but his mouth shut—all on its own!

“Dean, you were screaming for mercy.”

“Mercy, shmercy, the more noise you make, the faster it’s over.” Dean was at a loss—how did his mouth make that out of _You’d beg too, it felt like my ass broke!_

This was more than something rotten—this was magic. Rowena. No Winchester was gonna lie around taking his licks from a witch. This Winchester was getting up. He slid a leg toward the edge of the bed, let out a decidedly non-manly yelp, and slid it right back beside its partner.

“Get some paper and a pen from my desk.”

Dean balanced on one elbow and used his pillow to write on.

_I got a spanking but I think I’ll be a good boy now._

Jack looked at the paper, then at Dean’s incredulous expression, then back at the paper. “I-I don’t get it—did Sam make you write lines or something? I mean, that’s—”

“You idiot! Look at what I wrote!”

“Yyyyyou’re aaaaa good boy, now?” Jack’s genuine naivete was not helping at all.

Dean grabbed the paper and began to write ‘I didn’t mean to write that. I can’t write or say the truth about my spanking.’

_You are my friend. I hope we can make pie, some day._

Jack peered at the words, then grinned wide. “Awww, Dean, I like pie, t—”

Jack didn’t finish because Dean punched him in the face.

“Ugh, what the Hell, Dean?”

“You dumb, son of a bitch. Did Lucifer take your brains with your grace? You can’t even see what’s right in front—you’re getting blood on my comforter, jerk.”

“Cuz you _hit_ me!”

“Look! Just look!” Dean shook the paper close to Jack’s swelling eye.

“I read it, what do want?”

“I want you to stop being _you_!”

“I-I thought you liked me?”

“Nobody likes you. You’re too literal. Hunters have to think like—like hunters. You’re never gonna be a hunter.”

“That’s not true! Castiel said—”

“Castiel lied.”

Gone was the last trace of Jack’s cheerful demeanor. “You. Take. That. Back.”

“Fuck you, go play with your Devil Daddy.”

Jack jumped on Dean and they rolled, grappling. This didn’t fare well with Dean. But _Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Fucking OW!_—just came out as a long groan.

“I haven’t even hit you, yet!”

Jack struggled to free an arm, then popped Dean twice, in the eye.

“Ow, hey!” But Dean’s ass could care less about his eye.

The hunter grabbed a fistful of Jack’s hair and used all his strength to hurl them both off the bed—and off his tender ass. Dean managed to gain higher ground, still gripping the other boy’s hair (so, it was fighting dirty—it seemed fine to a teenage Dean) and punched his immobile target repeatedly, until someone a lot stronger grabbed his arm. Dean was so shocked, he let go of Jack’s scalp, just in time to be hauled to his feet. 

“Just what in the Hell do you Idjits think yer doing?”

“He started it!” The teens pointed comically at each other, before Dean took another swing at Jack—but missing, because Booby held the two at arm’s length. 

“He hit me first, Bobby!”

“Because you’re an imbecile!”

The older man shook both boys roughly by the backs of their t-shirts, “Enough! Ne’er mind which fool started it, tell me what it’s about!”

Dean knew this Bobby came from the Apocalypse world, but sometimes he was a dead-ringer for the Bobby Singer who had helped raise him.

“I was reading something Dean wrote—and then he hit me.”

Bobby sighed, “Dean?”

“I got frustrated. Any fool could see, if you’d just let me show you, Bobby.”

Dean’s scruff was released, “Well, so glad you consider me a fool, boy.”

Collecting the scattered papers, Dean showed them to the aging hunter.

Bobby’s face did an Elvis, “You’re a good boy who wants a pizza? What in the Hell?”

Dean heaved a long-suffering sigh, retrieving his pen from the rug and wrote _Something’s wrong with the spell. _

“You think you’re funny, boy?” Bobby angrily shook the paper, which read, _Who’s the idjit, now, old fart_? “You two are at each other’s throats as soon as your brother tries to git some shut-eye then after a three-day hunt I get this shit?”

Dean was getting desperate—if Bobby couldn’t understand he was trying to say something else, he might have to wake up his exhausted brother. Taking the paper, Dean tried again, explaining that the witch’s spell had been tampered with but writing _Old hunters never die, they just get drunk_.

Bobby slapped the paper out of Dean’s hand.

“Please, Bobby, read them all. Look what I wrote, damnit.”

“This is just what he did before he got mean and hit me, Bobby.”

Bobby stepped toward the young Winchester, “I don’t know what yer playin’ at, boy, but it ends _now_.” 

Seizing Dean by the back of his neck, Bobby marched the stunned teen to his bed, where he sat the boy down, roughly. The last thing Dean’s teenage-self wanted was to not look cool in front of his only peer. But with his butt still tender, cool Dean Winchester yelped like a puppy. “Ah, please, Bobby, please. Just give me a chance.”

“What? To sass me all night?”

SHHTHHHWIP!

_Oh. Crap._

“Turn over, boy.”

Dean obeyed, but couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice, “C’mon, Bobby, please. I just got punished.”

“Uh, Bobby, Sir—Dean’s telling the truth. Sam spanked him earlier and it sounded pretty severe.”

“I don’t think young Dean here knows what severe is.”

“Bobby, please! Trust me, I wouldn’t fuck with you!”

But this wasn’t Dean’s Bobby. Dean’s Bobby would have known right away something was wrong with his writing. He’d have known Dean wouldn’t write those things about him. Dean’s Bobby would never have punished him on top of another punishment. But this wasn’t Dean’s Bobby.

_SSSS-CRACK!_

Dean was immediately overwhelmed by the Hellfire the belt left behind; even though it was the first lick, even though it was over his sweats, and even though this Bobby _had_ considered Dean’s earlier spanking after all and tempered his swing. It felt like the leather had taken off a strip of skin and Dean screamed into his bedspread. 

_SSSS-CRACK!_

While hunting, Dean Winchester had suffered nearly every injury imaginable, but they paled in comparison to the damage he felt from Bobby’s belt. It was like being back in Hell, on the rack. Another muffled, but tortured scream and Dean panted into the tear-soaked blanket.

_SSSS_—

The jingle of a buckle, but sweet mercy, no _CRACK!_

Through his sobs, Dean heard Sam. “He’s had enough for today, Bobby. I’ve got him.”

There was more mumbled conversation, outside the room, then Dean felt the mattress move (as much as memory foam can) and a hand on his hitching shoulder.

“Dean? Dean, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him. Are-are you ok?”

Dean sniffed hard and cleared his raw throat, without looking up, “Do I look ok, Einstein?”

The hand retreated, “Uh, no, I guess not—sorry. Again.”

“P-please don’t go. I’m sorry, too.”

Jack put his hand back on his friend’s shoulder, “I know. You tried to show me something that I just can’t seem to see.”

Jack felt a hand on his own back, “Hey, kiddo, why don’t you wash your face and get some sleep?” Nodding, Jack took the tissue Sam offered and dabbed at his bloody nose.

With a soft pat to Dean, Jack said goodnight and left the brothers alone. Sam’s big hand replaced Jack’s, warming Dean’s shoulder, then his back, with slow circles.

“Bobby told me what happened, Dean.” Sam made a face at the papers he had gathered. “Guess it takes someone who really knows you to see that writing this nonsense isn’t your MO.”

His brother’s touch had started Dean’s tears anew.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Dean could only hiccup.

Sam put the papers aside and took a seat beside his brother, never stopping the soothing circles he traced just under Dean’s twitching shoulders.

“That’s just it, huh? You can’t, can you? I thought all that noise during your spanking was the spell, was it something else?”

Dean’s sobs grew louder, as he tried to answer, tried to nod, tried to pray for his brother to keep delving—_he was so close_. 

As Dean got more distressed, Sam tried to figure out what was out of place. Dean was definitely talking to him, it was just in a language they’d never used before. “It _is_ the spell, isn’t it?”

Dean quieted, somewhat. 

“So, it’s the spell. It’s keeping you from talking?”

“I-I can t-talk.”

“OK, you can’t talk _or write_ about some one thing? Right?”

Dean sniffled, as he stopped crying, altogether. _Finally_. He was finally heard.

Sam pressed on, “But why all that noise, from just a spanking? I mean, I didn’t go easy on you, I know, but Dean—was that the spell at work? Making you react like that?”

Dean slid off the bed, onto his knees and wiped his eyes, “I bawled like a baby, huh?”

“Can you tell me why?”

Dean tried to answer, unsuccessfully, only managing a shrug.

“You can’t.”

Dean sighed, with all the weight of a put-out teenager. This was going to feel ridiculous.

The boy stood stiffly then reached back, making a gesture, like his backside was growing. Sam watched as Dean then dug in a drawer, putting something in his brother’s hand.

Sam stared at the hairbrush. “It felt like you were spanked with this?”

“Sam, you’re a genius, but—" Dean left the room and after a lot of clattering around, returned with three more brushes.

Unceremoniously dumping his finds in Sam’s hands, Dean announced, “It’s math time, bro.”

Sam’s face paled, “Oh, Dean, you weren’t just hollering because the spell made you act immature—you were hollering because the spell made you feel like you were being spanked by a bunch of brushes?”

“Like I said, Sam, you’re a genius.”

“And not only couldn’t you tell me then, you can’t tell anyone now, can you? The spell won’t allow you to tell on the spell. That’s just cunning and diabolical and underhanded and—”

“Rowena.”


	4. Mega Bitch

Sam leaned back, his monstrous boots on the map table, big paw in his hair.

“No, no, Rowena, I didn’t say you got the spell wrong, it’s just not _right_.”

“Well, Sam—did it work or no’—still got a wee lil’ Deanie on yor ‘ands?”

“You bitch, you know what you did! This one was low, even for y—” But Dean was cut off, as Sam turned off the speaker phone and snatched up the device, out of his brother’s reach.

On the other end, Rowena gave an amused giggle, “Sounds like the mighty Dean Winchester’s still a few curlies short, downstairs.”

Sam gestured sharply for Dean to take a seat, before he could pitch another fit. Still tender, Dean looked at his brother like he’d told him to go find a singing jellyfish.

Holding up a hand, Sam listened impatiently, as Rowena explained, once again, the expected side-effects of the ancient spell. “Yes, yes, we know about the regression, but there’s something else going on—more like a curse?”

The witch’s voice lost its amusement, “Well, Sam, couldy’a at least buy me a drink b’fore you tell me just exactly how you think I screwed the pooch?”

The Winchester brothers stood in the bunker library, flanking Jack. If Rowena had been in a more jovial mood, she would have gleefully pointed out their graduated heights. Next time.

“We _expected_ you to deny it, mega bitch.”

Rowena placed a hand to the breast of her ruby satin dress and waxed shock, “Why, I nevah! And such language, young man,” she looked up through her mascara, “You ort to try to curb such behavior, Samuel, lest the boy become recalcitrant.” The witch’s well-enunciated last word echoed off the high walls of books, as she sipped from her brandy.

“Yeah, but get this—we asked for your help to hide Dean from Michael, but you had no right to add your little joke—Dean could be hurt pretty badly.”

Taking a seat, with a fed-up sigh, Rowena tossed her red hair and fixed her gown. Her eyes narrowed. “Sam, I told you, I cast the spell I was given—it’s side-effects are its side-effects—and you were warned. Besides, Dean looks just fine to me.” 

Jack had had very few dealings with Rowena, or witches in general. He felt just as tricked as the rest of them, by the attractive ball of danger, smirking at him with bright red lips. He didn’t understand why Sam was holding back information. Jack took a deep breath and let out a teenage mouthful.

“You know full well you cursed the spell so Dean would feel a beating instead of a spanking!”

For the moment, shocked silence filled the room, then came the tittering wind chimes of Rowena’s giggle. “It’s not funny,” Jack was on a roll, “it changed his words to nonsense, when he tried to tell us—and he pissed off Bobby and got it again.” Rowena’s laughter burst forth, as she pointed, like a bully on the playground.

Dean’s murderous look was enough for the Nephilim to clamp a hand over his mouth. While his brother stood mortified and blushing, Sam laid into Jack. “Great, _verrry _smooth. Congratulations, Jack, you stumbled on the perfect way to guarantee Dean will stay pissed at you until the next Apocalypse.”

“But it’s true, when he got span—hey!”

Dean was on Jack, the other teen instantly head-locked, and sporting a matching shiner.

Sam worked to pry the two apart, while Rowena clapped, delighted, “Tsk-tsk, oh, dear, Deanie, wouldn’t want to earn y’self another _mega-spanking_, now would’ja?”

Finally, Sam used his sternest voice to sequester the teens to opposite sides of the room. Jack plopped into a chair, clutching his battered face, while Dean took a more careful seat.

“Dean, you hit Jack one more time, and curse or no curse, I’ll hand your discipline over to Cas, when gets back.”

“You wouldn’t!”

Sam had to swallow his amusement at Dean’s scandalized face. Filing that card for later, the hunter smoothed his long hair back down, then bent and tipped Jack’s head, peering at the swelling. “He _won’t_ hit you, again—you tell me if he does.”

“It wath my fault, Tham,” Jack’s voice squeaked through his pinched nose, as blood trickled down his upper lip.

“Well, touché, I guess,” Sam looked over his shoulder, “But Dean, you've been trained to fight. Beating on him is _not_ ok.”

Rowena stood, clapped once, then rubbed her palms together. “Well, Samuel, I dare say if I had invented a side-spell this yummy, I’d be selling it on Etsy. And while this lil’ family drama ‘as been ever-so amusing, I was busy when you called, so—”

“Wait, the spell—where did you find it?”

“I had to cash in an old favor to get me hands on a reversible one.”

Sam sighed, knowing this was going to take careful finesse. “Who owed you a favor, Rowena? Must’ve been someone powerful.”

Rowena’s lipstick sneered, “Not as powerful as you think, Sam—she’s jus’ been lucky. Lucky to have met me or she wou’nt even be here at all, she wou’nt.”

“Lucky for us, then, too.”

“Indeed. But it’s not who you know, Dearie, but who’s after you, that made you so lucky. She di’nt even want to part with the spell, until I told her it was to hide Michael’s true vessel. Terrified of him, she is—ran right off to fetch it.”

“Who. Who was scared of Michael?”

“Old Boots, herself—Miss Dahlia Rose.”


	5. Witch Hunt

Dahlia Rose felt great—no, she felt spectacular. Her body was young and strong again, her skin flawless, and her magic—lately, it was like Dahlia’s magic got a vitamin B shot, then ate its Wheaties and washed them down with a vat of Red Bull. Even her simplest of spells packed an extra punch. Illusion spells manifested corporeal, she could find—even summon anyone or any_thing_, and without a single hex bag, she could afflict a scourge of blight and boils. Born in Jordan, an eon ago, the natural witch always did love that biblical stuff.

But those were magic tricks compared to what she could do with the ancient texts. Dahlia cast her untrammeled power over the darkest and most secret incantations, changing them to create hybrid spells, dark sigils—and monstrous curses.

But then, tweaking spells had always been the witch’s niche, her specialty, even before her magic had subscribed to the premium package. It was, in fact, her ticket to prime time. 

And that damn Rowena MacLeod. So what if she saved Dahlia’s hide—it was a century ago and hadn’t even been on purpose. A rare youth spell was a fair trade for settling her debt with the Scottish windbag, even if she had to steal from her own coven to get it. Anything to never again hear about Rowena’s highfalutin son or her stupid pet Winchesters—oh, and she supposedly _met God_! The witch had even tried to scare Dahlia by dropping that foreign archangel’s name—when everyone knew full well it was monsters he was after. 

Well, Dahlia thought she knew, until she entered her coven to find it riddled with the bodies of her sisters. The ones who hadn’t had their eyes burned out, looked rent apart from the inside out. Before Dahlia could flee, both her body and her magic were bound and pinned, under more power than she could fathom. 

“My name is Michael.” Dahlia cringed at the angel’s withering face. He reached out to her. “Does my power terrify you, witch?”

Dahlia managed a near imperceptible nod, trembling in her magical bonds. The angel opened his hand, revealing a glowing vial. “Some of your sisters refused to work with me—others weren’t strong enough—but you, Dahlia Rose, are their eldest—and from what I’ve heard, the most inventive. The others told me you can alter spells, perhaps add a curse without detection. Well, can you?”

Another jerky little nod.

“Good. You will leave here tonight, with the spell you came for _and_ add one of your secret amendments, for me. When you return—”

Outside, the wind whipped rain through the trees and a glow lit the windows, as Michael’s wings filled the space wall-to-wall with shadows. The vial glowed with blinding light.

“I will reward you.”


	6. Punitive Damages

“She’s disappeared—poof! Personally, I can’no imagine how an amateur has lasted as long as she has.”

“You think someone planted her? Dahlia Rose pushing up the daisies?” Dean leaned over Sam’s phone, jabbing an elbow in his brother’s ribs and waggling his eyebrows. Sam gave him a shove, “Well, that amateur knew where to find a spell you didn’t, Rowena.”

The usually slick voice bristled, “Hey, sasquatch—remember who asked who f’help.”

Sam cleared his throat, “Sorry, it’s just that finding her is important. If that spell was deliberate, we need to find out why.”

“Yeah, why would someone want to make Dean’s butt hurt?”

“Shut up, asshole!” Jack and Dean had already squared off, their fists raised, when Sam dropped the phone call and stepped between his charges. “Enough!” Helping Jack up, Sam turned to his brother and cuffed the back of his head, “I thought I warned you, Dean. Just keep pushing—”

Sam’s threat trailed off, as he watched his brother doubled over, cradling his head. “Jeez, Sammy, I didn’t even hit him.”

Sam reached out, but Dean flinched away. “Sorry, guess that was harder than I thought. Just, please, you two—I need you to get along, while we figure this out.”

Sam answered his buzzing phone, on speaker, still regarding his afflicted brother. “What, Rowena.”

“How pleasant. Yes, hello, Sam. I have some bad news and good news, too. In regards to that altered spell. I _miiiight _no’ be able to fix it.”

Dean let go of his sore head and looked at Sam with wide eyes.

“What? You mean you can’t change me back??”

Rowena spoke quickly. “Oh, yes, that, _o’course_ I can do—I’ll make you big and strappin’ again. It’s the, er—punishment thing. The mega spanking? If it was indeed a curse, added to an established spell, it can only be lifted by the witch who concocted it—or by her death.”

“And the good news?”

“That _is_ the good news, silly boy. We have a detector to tell us if she’s still alive. Well, Deano, is she?”

Resisting the urge to rub his still-tender backside, Dean’s cheeks colored, “Yeah, she’s still kickin’.”

“Excellent. I’ll put out an APB for the tart among the Familiars—our hounds’ noses would put Hell’s brutes to shame. Ta-ta.”

“Well, I guess it’s not that bad, Sam—I mean, once I’m my own age again, what’s the chance I’d earn a whuppin’, anyway?”

“He’s got a point, Sam—until today, I’ve never seen anyone spank Dean.”

“Thanks for that, Mr. Obvious.” Being dramatic, the teen bonked his forehead against the doorjamb, then jerked it away, wincing at the pain in his head. “Damn, that’s sore,” is what Dean opened his mouth to say—instead he announced, “Hey, I’ve got itchy toes.”

As Jack and Sam looked at Dean, wondering where this new line of humor was headed, understanding dawned on Dean’s face.

“That’s it, guys! Don’t you see, I’ve got itchy toes!” He pointed desperately at his head, “Itch—ee—to-oes!”

“Maybe the spell has an allergy side-effect?”

Dean was beside himself, as he grabbed Jack and balled the boy’s hand into a fist, pointing it towards his face.

“Hit me.”

“Now hang on just a minute, Dean.”

Dean reached out and poked Jack’s swollen eye. “Ahhhhgh!”

“OK, that’s it, Dean, what the Hell’s going on?” Sam tried to grab his brother, but he dodged, circling around the other teen.

“Hit me, Jack! C’mon, ya chicken?”

“We’ve been in enough trouble for fighting, Dean. Just stop.”

“Dean, so help me—"

Ducking under Sam’s reach Dean came back at Jack, “C’mon, half-breed. What’s a matter? Want your mommy? Where’s your daddy, huh? Oooops, I for—”

POW!

Jack plowed his fist into Dean’s chin, knocking the teen back a few steps. Dean grabbed his face and smiled, then chuckled—until his brother’s big hand landed on his ass.

“Aaaaoooooowww!!!”

Dean hopped from foot-to-foot, clutching the reignited flames behind him. Even as tears sprang to his eyes, he gave a triumphant cry, “See?” and looked hopefully at his angry companions.

“I see I’m gonna have to revise my earlier threat, Dean—you’ll get a crack just like that, when you earn it, _then _I’ll have Cas take his own crack at you later—capisce?”

“But-but—” Dean could see Sammy was too angry to reason with, so he turned to Jack, who was flexing his hand and staring at the floor.

“Jack, you get it, don’t you? I mean you hit like a girl, dude! Do you hear what I _can say_ about you hitting me?”

Jack stormed off, “Yeah, I heard you loud and clear.”

Sam looked beyond his wits with his brother, just scowling at him, shaking his shaggy head.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to concentrate between his throbbing head and his screaming backside.

“Hear me, Sammy, _please_.”

Time for charades, again. Dean motioned, like his head was exploding, then felt ridiculous, as he again demonstrated his butt throbbing.

Sam’s face scrunched. “Your head feels like your ass?”

Dean tapped his nose.

“But Jack’s punch was _just_ a punch.”

“The quirk in the spell, it’s not just spanking, is it? It’s punitive.”

Dean’s relief was obvious, but short-lived.

“So, if Rowena can’t reverse the curse, even big you’ll feel like a truck hit you, every time someone aims to teach you a lesson. There’s a lot of monsters out there, looking for comeuppance, Dean. You wouldn’t last long.”

“Awesome.”

“What were you saying about Jack?”

“I pissed him off, that’s all—he didn’t care about me learning my lesson, just wanted to shut my big mouth. Like I said, it just hurt normal.”

Sam looked towards the door. “Yeah? Well, you hurt him plenty, Dean. I know you were trying to make a point, but you didn’t need to do that to him—he really looks up to you.”

Dean considered his words. “You know, Sam, I’ll need you to explain it to him.”

“And I will, but first,” Sam placed his hands onto Dean’s shoulders and turned him towards the hall, “You’re going to apologize. No excuses, no reasoning, just _I was wrong_, _I’m_ _sorry_.”

Dean whined, “How come, Sam?”

WHACK!

“Yeeeerrraaargh!”

“Because that’s what friends do, Dean.”


	7. Futile Purpose

The angel stared at the church spire, absently watching the second hand on its clock creep forward. Soon, a brass bell would resonate across sprawling meadowlands, down the green hills, and settle over the tiny town. Then, the crisply-dressed communicants would emerge, their Sunday shoes clacking on the cobbled walkways, as they covered the short distance home. These folks rarely saw a stranger, maybe encountering one or two visitors a year to their little villa—let alone met an angel of the Lord. But that was just fine, because the angel of the Lord wasn’t interested in them in the least—only one.

As the last few parishioners filed down the lane, the angel approached the church, with sure strides. He reached into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold metal of the blade there, then opened the ornate wooden door. The space the angel entered was light, the tall windows hung with colored glass, flowers on the pristine altar. Taking a seat near the front, the angel considered his surroundings—and its futile purpose. How many voices had been raised here in unheard worship, the unanswered prayers—even the accidental miracles. The stalwart surety that faith provided, the comfort in absolutely knowing.

“I knew you would come.”

The angel sighed, answering in perfect Italian, “Congratulations.”

The dark-skinned man, with the gnarled, cracked face stood. Careful examination would reveal he had been handsome once, but now he seemed consumed from the inside and barely containing that power.

“And I know I’m not the first angel to visit a shapeshifter in a church. Not even the first, today.”

A thin sheen of sweat shone off the priest’s forehead. “He offered to take me from this place, offered to save me—from you.”

Michael stepped out of the pew, slowly walking toward the altar. 

“And why would you need saving, Giuseppe?” 

The priest took in the angel’s head tilt, marveling at how much more benevolent the move had seemed atop the trench coat.

“I told him I don’t. I’m already saved. Born a monster, I have denounced my birthright and instead entered the light. My life is serving, not the taking that being a—” Giuseppe grimaced, “a _shifter _entailed. It’s behind me now.”

“I see, Giuseppe,” the angel shucked his chin, “So this, this is your true form?”

Faltering for only a moment, the priest drew back his shoulders, “Father DiCiaccio gave his form to me, just before his death, in exchange for carrying on his parish. He knew what I was—the things I had done—and gave me absolution, a purpose. Today, I don’t kill, I don’t take, and I don’t change. Not for anything. Ever.”

The priest startled, as the figure before him blinked out of thin air.

Just as quickly, the angel returned—a toddler on his hip. The tiny girl looked around, stunned, then at the frightening Michael, and promptly started to cry. 

“Shhhh, Anna Maria, it’s Father DiCiaccio—you’re safe, bambina.”

“Why lie to the child?” Michael carried the wailing girl up onto the altar, standing close to the shifter. He reached into his tailored coat pocket and withdrew a glowing vial. 

“Now, you are going to drink this and do what I say,” gripping the toddler by the back of the neck, Michael held her at arm’s length, kicking and screeching.

“Or, I pop her little head off and _then_ you drink this, _then_ do what I say.” The angel’s crisp Italian echoed off the walls.

Giuseppe took a last panicked look around at his church—then from the vial to the distressed child.

The angel rolled his glowing eyes, so done with all this noise, “Decisions, decisions…”


	8. The Other Angel

Castiel sat in the Sicilian cafe, sifting through lore—and pretending to nurse a cup of the world’s finest coffee. He was distracted somewhat, troubled by the old priest’s refusal of his help. In his time on Earth, Cas had met a handful of reformed Supernatural beings—he himself being one—but had not before met one so bent on self-sacrifice. Cas’ mouth twitched, as he realized Sam and Dean would both laugh in his face, at such a comment.

Still, the shapeshifter had made a life for himself. He found a calling. No longer a deadly identity thief, he belonged to a community—he had his people. Rather than risk Michael destroying that community, in search of its hidden monster, Giuseppe had chosen to stay and hold his ground. He wouldn’t give up his life willingly, but also refused to run. Castiel had told him that another was coming, one who wanted monsters for his own end—but the priest hadn’t been deterred. Angels were from God and God’s will would be done.

Cas flipped absently through the volume, thinking of the shifter’s face when he had told the creature he had to leave—that Michael might sense his presence.

“But he’s your brother,” the priest said.

“Not in this world, he’s not. Here, he's _il mostro_.”

Cas pushed the cup away—molecules tasted even worse cold—and returned to his book, searching for clues to the beings who evaded the Men of Letters. Centuries ago, the British chapter had expanded across Europe, casting its lethal net out for any and all monsters in its wake. Only the strongest and most clever supernatural creatures survived and today, many blended in so seamlessly in modern society, as to go undetected. That is, until an archangel went looking for them. Michael had met with such easy success in the Americas, he was soon spotted oversees, making super-monsters with alluring accents.

Of course, even Michael couldn’t manage a hundred percent success rate. There were those who resisted his world-conquering plot; particularly these feisty Europeans, proud of their hard-fought survival and unwilling to bow to a master—even an archangel. They survived the middle ages, the Men of Letters, the internet, and even the Apocalypses—yes, _all_ of them. And then an alien angel came along. Hold the cellphone.

Cas knew they needed Michael’s formula—to unmake a super-monster, you had to first understand how one’s made. While Cas warned the monsters he found about Michael, he was really looking for one who had survived a brush with the archangel—a rare find, he knew, but possible. Back in the states, they had come across just that monster—a vamp who Michael had let go, to ambush Dean. It’s how they learned about his monster army and that Michael was seeking Dean as his vessel. In the end, Cas had been all but powerless against the archangel and Sam and Dean had only escaped using a banishing sigil. Cas landed outside a pub, near the German border. Inside, the TV aired a news story involving a man with a cracked face and victims with burned-out eyes.

Feisty Europeans, indeed. 

Cas branded his own chest with Enochian warding, but still didn’t trust that it would cloak him completely. Like the brother Cas had known in this world, Michael from the alternate universe had immense—yet not limitless power. At least if the archangel was tracking him, Dean would stay out of danger. Last time he called, Rowena was trying to find the brothers a spell, but it seemed a long shot.

Cas flipped on his burner phone and dialed. 

Sam answered his own burner phone, “Cas, hey.”

“Hello, Sam. How’s Dean?”

“Dean’s uh—well, he’s ok, I guess.”

“Talk to me, Sam—any news of Rowena’s spell?”

“Oh, yeah, she got it and cast it, Cas, but—now Dean’s a teen.”

“A teenager? Sam, I thought the idea was to make his vessel as young as possible. I can’t imagine an infant could say yes to Michael.”

Sam snorted, “Just imagine Dean’s reaction when he realized he’d be back in diapers.”

Cas exhaled, loudly.

“Exactly. He got drunk, dented the wall, punched me, then tried to punch Rowena. She hoodooed him out cold, but I knew he’d never forgive me if we went through with it, so I had her make him young enough—before his vessel experienced Hell. By all accounts, _The Righteous Man_ is Michael’s perfect vessel.”

“I understand, Sam. You must have your hands full with two teenagers, there. You doing ok?”

Sam let a groan escape, “No, Cas, I’m not. So, get this—the spell’s regressing Dean’s behavior and he’s got Jack acting out, too. And there’s more, Cas.”

Dropping some coinage on the table, the angel tucked the book of lore into his trench coat and left the cafe, headed towards the bus station. He had to keep moving. Sam had started what sounded like a long story, so he might as well hear it on the bus to anywhere. 


	9. Sorry

“Go away.”

“C’mon, man, let me in—I just want to talk.”

“We talked. Now leave.”

Dean paused. “I’ll let you hit me again.”

“What—like a girl? Just go, Dean.”

“Look, Jack, I’m sorry, man. I was a total dick.”

“Fine. Just go, dick.”

Dean chuckled, “Hey, that was almost a joke.”

Silence.

“C’mon, Jack, give me a chance. Back when we met, I gave you one.”

Finally, there was noise behind the door, besides brooding. Dean waited as the door opened a crack, then poked his face through—only to once again meet Jack’s fist. Dean fell flat on his back—out cold.

Blinking away the haze, Dean sat up. The hallway was dark—pitch black, in fact. He rubbed his eyes and blinked again, slowly getting up. “Jack? Sam? Bobby? Mom? Anyone?”

The blackness was so disorienting, Dean was frozen to the spot—which direction could he even go? A moment later, a reddish light shone to his right emitting a deafening clap, while a demonic laugh surrounded him—_what the actual fuck_? Dean Winchester had known some weird in his lifetime, but this was weird with a capital _W_. Just then, the capital EIRD showed up, as two enormous hands emerged from the light, slamming together with another ear-splitting crack. Dean dove for cover, finding none. As the impossibly loud sound echoed around him, the hunter fell to his knees, tucking his head, his hands clasped tightly over his ears. Somehow, through the din, Dean could still make out the malicious laughter—and something else. A breathy voice, echoing in layers, taunted, “Naughty, naughty.”

“_What the actual one hundred percent genuine fuck_?”

That time, Dean voiced the question into the din—and he didn’t like the answer.

SSSSSSMACK!

The power behind the blow should have sent Dean airborne—but it hadn’t—it just landed, with gargantuan strength, on his upturned rear. Before Dean could fully process that he’d been spanked by fucking King Kong, he was screaming—screeching, really, in pain. Everything that was Dean Winchester, the hunter, the slayer of things from Heaven and Hell, told him to run—but he was glued to the spot—head ducked, ass up. Ass up? _No,no,no,no,no,no_—

SSSSSSMACK!

That was it—Dean’s ass was broken. As he howled bloody murder, as he felt the air shift, the massive hand lifting again. “P-please. PLEASE! Whatever I did, I’m s-sorry!”

SSSSSSMACK!

“I’M SORRRRRRYYY!!!”

Was he moving? He was—Dean was moving, but not of his own accord. The floor was shaking—no, someone was shaking him.

“Mmmmshtawp, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

“Dean, come on, wake up. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. Wake up!”

Dean shoved Jack off him. “You still hit like a girl, kid.”

Shaking the remnants of his trippy nightmare from his head, Dean raked a hand down his face and winced. Great, the little shit busted his nose? Still, he let the little shit help him to his feet. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Are you ok, Dean? I mean, you look ok—a little bruise, I guess.”

Huh? Dean got up and pushed passed Jack, into the bathroom. He turned his face from side to side, in the mirror and flexed his jaw, but the kid was right. Aside from some mild bruising, his nose didn’t look broken—not even swollen. There wasn’t even any blood, so how did girly-punch Jack manage to cold-cock him?

“I guess I did want to hurt you, Dean. I mean, not knock you out, just make you—I don’t know.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at his friend, in the mirror. “You wanted to teach me a lesson?”

“I guess so. I wanted you to understand how you made me feel, so you wouldn’t do it again. Please don’t do that again, Dean.”

Grasping the sink, Dean sighed. He turned to face Jack, almost eye to eye. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I was trying to—” Dean’s mouth snapped shut. He clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Look, man, it doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have said those things for any reason—I didn’t mean it, any of it.”

Jack nodded, “Thank you, I needed to hear that. I’d like to forget it, now.”

Sam called their names and they headed down the hall.

Jack paused, “Oh, and Dean—if you ever talk shit about my parents again, I’ll break your fucking nose.”


	10. Zombie Field Mice

“Cas! It’s good to hear from you, man.”

After a beat, Cas’ gravelly voice came through the speaker, “Hello, Dean. It’s good to hear you, too—even if you do sound a bit, er, different.”

“Oh, yeah, the Bieber thing. It’s, uh, it’s a trip is what it is, Cas.”

The angel’s voice seemed to grow even deeper, “Yes, Dean, Sam’s filled me in on your ‘trip.’ Heard you’ve been in trouble since your change.”

“Dean smiled, brightly at his brother’s frown, “Trouble’s my middle name, Cas.”

“Nnnno, it’s not, Dean. Did you really have to drag Jack into your—” 

“Shenanigans?” Dean’s sly smile earned him another Sam glare.

“Hi, Castiel. I punched Dean in the face—twice.”

Sam looked from one teen to the other.

Cas’ sigh couldn’t quite mask his amusement, “Nice to hear you’re spending time, together.”

Another smirk, another bitch face. “Any more signs of Michael?”

“Well, Dean, he’s definitely on the continent, actively recruiting monsters.”

“Still in the same vessel?”

“Yes, by all accounts. But, as we feared, it’s not serving him well, in our world—he will eventually seek his true vessel.”

“Me. ‘Cept the lore says we’ll go nuclear pretty quick if he tries to cram all that archgrace into this tight little teen package.”

“That’s what we’re counting on. So far, angels seem to have been made the same in both worlds.”

“Made the same, sure, but they never fell in that other place.” Dean instantly felt bad he brought that up. Tracking a winged angel must be hard on Cas. 

“So,” the angel’s tone rang of a subject change, “Sam also told me about the more painful side-effects you’ve suffered from that spell.”

Unable to remark on the subject, Dean scowled darkly at his brother. “Rowena claims she’s clueless, so we’re looking for her dealer, the Black Dahlia.”

“Dahlia Rose,” Jack corrected. “The cursed spell came from her and she’s missing.”

“Well, until you find her, I suggest you behave yourselves and stay out of trouble—for the sake of Dean’s tender bottom.”

Dean flushed. “Aw, man, Cas, really? I’m not some—” 

“Enough, Dean. You’ve been out of control, something dangerous in a hunter. Do as you’re told.” 

The no-nonsense in Cas’ voice commanded respect, snapping Dean out of his mortification. “I’ll watch my P’s and Q’s, Cas. Sir.”

The call ended and Dean’s tone turned decidedly less respectful. “What the Hell did you tell him, Sam? You’ve got him thinking I’m some kind of delinquent and talking to me like he’s—he’s _Dad_ or something.”

“Take it easy, Dean. I told Cas the truth and the thing is, he’s worried about you. He agrees it’s not a good idea for you to leave the bunker at all, not until we find that witch and get rid of that curse.”

“But, Sam!”

_But Sam_ expected Dean’s protest and stood tall above him. “Did you already forget you’re both grounded for that all-night raccoon chase?”

“It was diseased coyotes,” Jack offered.

“I don’t care if it was zombie field mice, the two of you are staying put—end of discussion. Read yourselves blind, but NO hunting and definitely NO spellwork.”

Dean sat still a moment, letting his brother’s words sink in, then cranked up his sarcasm dial, “I don’t know about you, Jack, but I’m gonna try to keep myself busy around here. Gonna hit the books and see what I can dig up on these zombie field mice.”

More resigned to their fate, Jack yawned and leaned his heavy head against the table. “That’s absurd, Dean.”

“Look, guys, we’re all beat. I’ve got a half dozen voicemails to answer, then I’m gonna hit the hay—you should do the same.”

The grumbling teens grumbled their way down the hall, while Sam Winchester described to a hunter from an alternate Universe the exact procedure for purifying a gold blade to decapitate an iron-toothed forest ogre. Not absurd at all.


	11. This Bites

“This bites.”

Jack looked up from his book, “So, you’ve mentioned, Dean—like a thousand times.”

Jack motioned with his book, “Sit down, read,” before pointing his nose back in the pages. But Dean continued pacing the floor. “I’ve already learned about why only female werewolves eat gall bladders, I discovered an incantation for turning crude oil into soup and I can now recite the family history of The Wailing Ghouls of Budapest. I’m done reading.”

“There are plenty more books, Dean,” Jack didn’t look up this time, “and if you keep complaining, Sam will set you up with more housework.”

Dean shuddered. His brother had listened to the teen waxing ennui for exactly half an afternoon, then marched him to the dungeon, with a mop and bucket of Pine-Sol. “Clean every spot of blood from the room.”

“It’s a dungeon, Sam! There’s blood everywhere—some of it’s ours.”

“Yup. It’s time to cut back on the DNA around here and since you’ve announced to the Universe that there’s _nothing to do_, you’re the kid for the job.”

“Aaaaw, c’mon, I’ll stop bitchin’. This is cruelty, Sam.”

“This is punishment, Dean. I took your electronics for a reason. You’re supposed to be bored.”

“Having no phone sucks.”

“It’s supposed to suck. We _could_ always renegotiate…with the hairbrush.”

And with that, Dean Winchester started painstakingly disinfecting the devil’s trap.

“Every drop, Dean. I’ll call you for lunch.”

“This bites. I’m going out.”

Jack was up and moving. “Dean! Sam told you me if you leave, he’ll let Bobby use his belt on you and, and…”

“Yeah, I heard him—and what else?”

“And if I didn’t stop you,” Jack swallowed, “I’d get the same.”

Dean considered the kid a few moments, standing in his way with body language that said he wouldn’t budge—and a face that pleaded for Dean not to try to make him. An inch shorter and most likely biologically a few years younger, Dean still knew that with his experience, he could take Jack. Nephilims didn’t need to train, as angel powers trumped a brawl, every time. But, damn it—the kid’s face. The way he was worrying his stupid lip, with his stupid bangs over his scrunched-up brow and that imploring terror in his stupid, blue eyes.

Since he’d lost his grace, Jack had taken some lumps, mostly from Dean himself. But that wasn’t what had the poor kid sweating—Jack believed Sam—if Dean took off, they would both feel Bobby’s belt. Born a teen, the kid had never even been spanked, let alone strapped. Aw, fuck.

Letting out a resigned sigh, Dean stood down. He wasn’t sure if he bought Sam’s threat, but just in case, Dean owed Jack a break. Shuffling toward the garage, Dean mumbled, “This bites. I’m gonna wax Baby.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Dean paused.

“Hey, you wanna help?”


	12. Something Unnatural

_Killing Spree Continues, Death Toll: Three_

While Nick got a thrill of excitement from the headline in the Delaware paper, he found the article more than a little disturbing. They had gotten the names and particulars about the victims right, and sure, they even listed the evidence linking one killer to the three crimes. But Nick was pissed when he read about the theory that the victims were random. He’d taken great care to cross-contaminate the scenes and _help _the idiot cops—but they were still as incompetent as they had ever been at solving his family’s murder. These people were obviously connected—from the only eye witness, to the reporter, even the chief investigator. They had all claimed they’d told him everything they knew, just before they died—but Nick was smarter than that and knew they were hiding something. 

“Another one?”

Nick shook his near-empty beer and nodded.

The bartender served up a full bottle, leaning over the newspaper, “Sure thing, but I was talking about those murders.”

Nick took a pull off his fresh beer. “Been following the story, have you?”

“I have. Something’s not right.” The big man behind the bar scratched at his fuzzy beard before going back to stacking glasses. 

Nick lowered his bottle slowly, “What makes you say that?”

The bartender shrugged, “Seems like there’s more to it than they’re printing.”

“You know something?” Nick pointed the neck of his beer at the other man, like a finger, “I bet you’re right—” He peered at the embroidered name on the man’s shirt, “Luke, the paper says they were tortured. I bet his guy’s after something—some kind of intel. ”

Luke finished the glasses and put away the rack, waving goodnight to his only other customers. 

“Funny you’d say that. Guess some FBI detective found a _Luke’s_ matchbook in that pretty reporter’s desk drawer.” He poked the newspaper. “Must’ve come in years ago, long before she turned up dead. See, I forget people’s faces, but one of my regulars remembered her well—tried to pick her up. Heard him tell the Fed how one minute he was plying her with alcohol, the next she was going on about some murder cover-up. She said she had evidence of something—uh,” Luke made a face. “Something _unnatural_.”

Nick played nonchalant, “Did she say what?”

“Don’t know, but I guess she was real shook up, kinda ranting. He didn’t score.” Shaking his big, shaggy head, the bartender chuckled, “Sounds totally crazy, I know, I still can’t believe that dead woman’s been in my place.” The man leaned over the bar and knocked lightly on his own head. “Old football injury messes with my memory, but I won’t forget Barry Granger’s face when he struck out _again_—with, what was her name? Uh, Slick? Something Jett?” Luke made a twirlie gesture by his temple, “Anyway, that pretty blonde from the FBI.”


	13. The Pretty Blonde

“Hi, Mom!”

“Dean? Where’s Sam?”

Dean tiptoed toward his room, with his brother’s phone.

“Sam’s having a nap—face first, on the map table. Guess the poor little guy’s tuckered out from babysitting.”

Mary Winchester did her best to use her rusty Mom voice, “I hear he’s had good reason to keep an eye on you—really, Dean—hunting? With Michael out there?”

Dean sighed the incredibly put-out sigh of a teenager, “It wasn’t even a hunt, Mom, nothing happened.”

“Oh, sure, the devil’s vessel disappeared while your brother was out, tracking you down. Dean, you’ve got to use your head and, and grow up.”

“Sammy says the spell’s growing me down, Mom—it’s not my fault. Teenagers do dumb shit, ya know?”

“No, Dean, I don’t know. I missed your teen years—I missed a lot. I wish I was there now, but I called because I’ve got a lead to finding Nick.”

“So, did Nick head for home like you thought he might?”

“Definitely. Someone’s killing off people connected to the murder of his family. A neighbor, their priest—and a reporter who claimed evidence of something paranormal. Seems like nobody believed her.”

“So, Nick’s gone dark side?”

“Well, he did hold Lucifer the longest—maybe he’s still got some devil inside.”

“I’ll tell sleeping beauty, when he wakes up. Hey, Mom—miss you.”

There was a pause, then Mary’s voice was low, “Aw, Dean, I miss you, too. And Sam and Bobby and Jack—but none of them are as cute as you, Sweetie.”

“I’m losing ya, Ma—think the receptions going.”

“Love you too, Dean.”


	14. Far-away Sight

Dahlia watched from above, as Dean took a swat from his brother—and yowled, like he’d been beaten senseless. Excellent.

“What’s taking so long?”

Dahlia’s head hung almost unnaturally back, her fluttering eyes white with far-away sight, as she soared... 

“Damn you! Answer me!”

At Michael’s rough shake, the witch was slammed back into her body. Dahlia’s eyes returned to normal as she tried to catch her breath, as well as her bearings.

“I told you, the curse takes time—it works along with the progression of the spell. I had to create a creeper curse or even an amateur like Rowena would have detected the change.”

“And yet, you needed that amateur to get close enough to cast it.”

Dahlia smoothed her dark hair, her fingers crackling with energy,  
“Oh, please. That tart can’t even see past the Winchesters’ wards, let alone get near them—if they don’t _want_ her to. Not only do I have stronger sight, but I’m nearly able to reach in between wards. Hell, I can track warded angels, I have more power than she can dream of—”

Dahlia found herself uncomfortably close to the angel’s crumbling face, “You have the power _I_ _gave you _and you will use it as I tell you. You watch Castiel, because you’ve been told to. You answer when I call and cast your spells where I say. When Dean gives me my true vessel, once he’s said yes,” Michael waved a wrinkled hand, dismissively, “then you can do as you wish.”

“Honest?”

“Do I not I look like a man of my word?” The grim smile split into an aberrant Joker grin across his cheeks.

Dahlia gave herself credit for not telling Michael exactly what he looked like. Instead, she lowered her gaze, bowing slightly, “You look like an angel, Master.” Michael regarded the incredibly powerful being he had created. She might be one of his own new and improved models, but he saw right through her.

“I am an _Arch_angel, witch.”

“And I am a _super_-witch.”

“Call yourself what you like, until you’ve fulfilled your purpose, you are mine.”

As the angel smiled, the dark skin at the corners of his mouth began to peel further. But as he pondered something the witch had said, Michael’s smile faded. “You said you can reach inside the wards, but can you pull Dean out?”

“I’ve nearly—” 

“Nearly? Dean’s_ nearly_ ready, it’s _nearly_ time, you’re _nearly_ strong enough!” The angel’s voice boomed, then dropped low and dangerous, “I am not accustomed to waiting for what’s mine.”

The old witch averted her dark eyes and tried hard to keep her voice non-patronizing. “The wards are strong, but I—_you _made me even more powerful. The vessel will be ready, soon, My Lord—I’d say as soon as one more punishment. When he disobeys your command, your correction will change his mind.”

“Be clear, witch—you were told I cannot obtain my vessel through torture—you must be absolutely sure he’ll say yes willingly.”

“Trust me, a dose of well-deserved discipline _from you_ and the boy will be saying penance, let alone _yes_.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”


	15. An Awesome Parakeet

“Dean?”

“C’mon, Sam, I’m in the damn crapper.”

“Ok, ok, just checking. Bobby won’t be back from Missouri for a while and Mom’s still in Delaware. She found evidence of demon involvement, in the murder of Nick’s family.”

“Ya don’t say.”

“Dean, look—you gotta swear you and Jack won’t go anywhere. _I mean it_. You do and you’ll both be sorry.”

Inside the bathroom, young Dean Winchester stood with his jeans and shorts at half-mast, rubbing his punished backside. He twisted to see clearly in the mirror, behind him—marveling that the skin back there was barely pink, yet felt raw, like he’d been dragged on it. Sam had put an early end to Bobby’s wooden spoon assault on Dean’s poor little behind, but not before the old codger managed to leave Dean feeling flayed alive. The young hunter had only stopped sobbing when he’d finally drifted off to sleep—greatly regretting pinching a bottle of Bobby’s Johnny Walker (but not sorry at all for schooling a certain Nephilim on how to slow someone down by tying their boot laces together). 

Sniffing, Dean gingerly slid his jeans back up and pretended to wash his hands, before he emerged, walking stiffly, “Yeah, Sam, I know. Trust me, I’ll be a good boy.” This sucked—and it was getting worse.

So strong was the spell’s limit on Dean’s ability to complain about its affects, it was getting hard to communicate—and even harder to stop himself from doing (and saying) childish things. There was always booze in the bunker, so why had he swiped Bobby’s? Dean had taken the full rap for “hobbling” the old hunter, so he was thinking clear enough not to get Jack in trouble. Where was his own sense of self-preservation? And Bobby had laid into him yesterday, so why was Dean still hiding in the bathroom the next day, sniveling like a girl? He was miserable and this stupid spell sucked ass—Dean missed his Mom, he missed Cas—and he missed being Dean Winchester. 

Dean startled when Sam’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey, you ok? At least you’ll be out of Bobby’s hair a few days.”

The teen tried to hide his pink nose and moistened eyes. “He’s hardly got any damn hair, just a—”

Dean choked on the words _Hell of a swing_.

“An awesome parakeet,” popped out, instead.

Sam kept his hand on Dean’s shoulder, despite the boy trying to turn away. “Dean, you did provoke him. You gonna be ok?”

“I love those lollipops,” Dean frowned.

Sam slid his arm around his brother’s shoulders and walked with him, “I know you do, Dean—I know you do.”

………………….

It was nearly noon when Sam had headed into town for supplies. Running low on food was one thing, but when soap went scarce in a space filled with guys, it became noticeable. Bobby had offered to go, before the case in Branson came up but Sam had sent him after the likely vamp immediately—as much to prevent more killings as to get some space between the peppery hunter and his brother.

Dean lay sprawled in a library chair, reading an issue of The Dark Knight, when an unseen presence joined him among the book shelves. Had the presence been corporeal, it would have appeared to be a comely brunette, running her slender fingers along the ancient volumes. But to Dean, the antique shelf hangers simply gave out, making him jump at the noise of dusty bindings crashing to the floor. As Dean got up to inspect the spontaneous little disaster, a single yellowed sheet floated down, from off the broken shelf.

Dean picked it up and read the summary of the spell, as Dahlia’s astral projection watched.

“Jack! Jack, get your ass out here, I got it!”

Dean was positively giddy, as he told how the spell everyone told him didn’t exist, literally fell at his feet. Jack perused the Latin, verifying that it was indeed an aging spell, described as growing one’s “mind and body,” but then the teen hesitated. “Doesn’t this seem a little too good to be true?”

“Really, Jack? That’s what you got? I found my ticket outta Acneville and you gotta shit on it, right off?”

“Sorry Dean, it’s just—” Jack gestured around the library, “It’s just that with all this and what Rowena said, it’s kinda strange nobody knew about this cure.”

“You’re really some friend, you know it? If some way to return your grace fell in your lap, I’d say _what’re we waiting for, let’s help Jack_. I’d be happy for you, bud—not crap on your lawn.”

“On-on my lawn? I—”

“Not literally, idiot.”

It had been nice, learning how to carefully wash Dean’s Impala, even if he wasn’t allowed near her with the wax, which Jack held dutifully while Dean dipped into it and explained in detail how to bring his Baby to a shine. They had even laughed some. Jack scrambled to get back in Dean’s good graces. 

“Dean, I’m sorry, I am—I didn’t mean to be unsupportive. We’ll show Sam the spell, soon as he’s back.”

Dean scoffed, “What—and have him shit on it, too?” Dean snatched the paper back from his rattled friend, “No thanks, I got this. If you won’t help me, at least stay outta my damn way.”

As Dean stormed off toward the storeroom, he smiled. It took Jack only a beat to start after him, “Dean, wait—I’ll help.”


	16. I'll Kill Him

Dean was crestfallen. The boy hardly spoke, brooding in silence, while he cleaned away the ingredients of the failed spell. _Failed_. 

Jack tried to cheer him up, daring to risk Sam’s no-electronics wrath by turning on the first season of Game of Thrones. But Dean chose to avoid taking out his deep disappointment on his friend and left Jack to watch it solo. King Geoffrey was acting the fool again when the bunker began to rumble, thrumming with energy. Had Jack had his grace, he would have felt the strongest wards burning away and the magnitude of power that entered in their absence. 

Jack ran to the Map Room, in time to see Michael, looking worse for wear, and a stunning dark woman, regarding Dean. Michael was aglow, showing off his wingspan. The display should have been blinding to the humans, but, while terrifying, it lacked that usual archangel luster. Dean said nothing.

“Get away from him!”

All Jack’s demand got him, was knocked to the floor.

The reason for Dean’s uncharacteristic silence became apparent, as the teen was lifted by an invisible source, as he clutched at his throat. The woman raised her arms and a driving wind whipped through the bunker. Books and furniture swirled passed Jack, while he looked on in horror, as his friend was engulfed in glowing energy. “Dean!” Jack pushed through the maelstrom and made a desperate lunge toward the light, which drew him in, as it disappeared, with a mighty clap. The empty bunker echoed with the clatter of its contents, crashing to the floor.

“Goddammit!” Sam searched through the mess in the empty bunker twice before he rang Cas on speed-dial. 

“Hello, Sam. I’m afraid my trail on Michael has—”

“He’s gone, Cas—Dean is gone.”

Cas sighed like the millennia-old he was. “Has he snuck off, again?”

“I wish he had. Jack’s gone too and the bunker’s totally wrecked. The power that came through here—Cas, it was Michael.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Sam swallowed hard, “Michael has them.”

“How?”

Sam peered at the random charred spots along the ceiling. “He must be a whole new kind of powerful to burn through the warding.”

“The new kind of powerful, like the creatures he’s been making?”

“Maybe. Cas, if Michael can make something that powerful, why not break the wards, himself?”

“Even an archangel can’t breach angel sigils. Those signs were begat by God, to keep his first creations in check, when He made the world. They are absolute. And yet, Sam, Michaels mutations have changed some rules.”

They both let that sink in.

“Unless—”

“Tell me, Cas.”

“Unless, they were broken from within.”

“Dean wouldn’t do that.”

“You said yourself, he’s not the Dean we know.”

“Still, it would be suicide. And would even an immature, brat Dean put Jack in that kind of danger?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ll kill him.”

Cas’ next sigh carried the weight of creation.

“If Michael doesn’t, first.”


	17. I Saw it Shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know Michael is merciless, so be warned--things are gonna get dark...

The rays of the sun played tag among the rows of vines below, as it set over exquisite wine country. Unable to appreciate the heavenly view, Michael could still take in the quiet solitude of his chalet. The angel had gladly dished out a pile of stolen Euro for exclusive rights to the location. Perched on sleepy Mt. Etna, Michael lorded over the countryside. From a spot near his feet, his two human captors groaned in their bonds, slowly coming to. Damn, so much for the quiet.

“Dean? Are you there?”

“Yeah. Shut it, Jack, ‘til we know where there is.”

“It’s really dark, Dean.”

“That’s cuz we’re blindfolded, idiot.”

“How do you know we’re both blindfolded, if you can’t see, either?”

“Cuz I know I’m blindfolded and you said it’s dar—look, just shut up, will ya!”

There came a loud, slow clapping, as somewhere in the room, a woman chuckled, “Oh, they are entertaining, aren’t they? Like Abbot and Costello, without the baseball bit.”

There was a pause, as Michael cocked his gnarled head, clearly at a loss.

The voice deflated, “Well, you know, they’re funny, but not _that_ funny.”

Behind his back, Dean worked at the ropes, as he rubbed his forehead on the floor, sliding the material off his eyes. Dean looked up, shocked to see the archangel, standing over him.

“Y’know what’s funny? Michael’s damn face—looks like burnt hair on meatloaf.”

Dean felt himself lifted effortlessly off the floor, by his belt.

“Tsk, tsk, this naughty boy needs a lesson in manners.”

The woman’s voice came eager, excited, “Yes, M’Lord! Go ahead and try it out.”

Dean didn’t cease his efforts to escape. He twisted his wrists, tugging at the knots, until, without warning, he was shaken violently, like a dusty floor mat. Then, suddenly the blindfold was back. “Leave your bonds, boy.” 

Dean yelped, as he felt himself dropped. He let out an “Oof” of air, as his stomach made contact none-too-gently with a hard surface. The teen had barely registered that he was bent over when something and heavy as a sledgehammer and hard as solid steel smashed into the seat of his jeans. Dean’s scream got swallowed up in the next one, as the hammer fell once again. He felt the inside of the blindfold moisten with his tears, while the boy gasped for breath and moaned in pain. The force of the blows had driven his body forward, so his forehead now rested against something solid and flat. Sobbing, the hunter swung his head side-to-side, using the surface to work the strip of material off again. Already burning with tears, Dean’s eyes squinted against the light of the room. He could now see the hard thing in his stomach was the back of a chair, his wet cheek pressed against the wooden seat. That’s not all he could see.

“Ya sh-sure are u-ugly.”

Another ridiculously hard swat slammed down on Dean’s upturned rear.

Michael clucked his tongue, “I thought I told you to leave that alone. You’ve earned yourself more punishment, Dean—much more.”

The beating—because hand or not, what Michael was giving Dean couldn’t be considered a spanking by any measure—continued, steady and hard. 

Dean shrieked in panic and cried in despair, but mostly he_ suffered_ white-hot, skin-blistering pain.

When the assault ended, Dean could hear pitiful screaming, echoing off the stone walls around him. Through a haze of pain, he thought _Jack_, but no, he could hear Jack calling his name. As Dean choked in air, it donned on him that the voice in anguish sounded an awful lot like his. Well, shit. 

“Are you ready to be my vessel, boy?”

Dean couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He continued to keen through each ragged breath, only marginally aware that a dark someone in heels had stepped close to his sweat-soaked head and bent to look at him. However, Dean was very aware that the angel had lifted his hand again.

“Go easy now, M’Lord—you are pushing the boundaries of punishment—if he says yes under torture—”

“I know the way it works, witch,” Michael’s voice growled.

The woman sounded nervous, under her sycophantic reply. “Of course you do, you’re the archangel.”

Nearby, Jack fought his ropes, calling, “Dean! Dean! Leave him alone!”

Michael flicked a finger and Jack’s open mouth failed to make further sound.

“Tell him—make it a clear command.”

“Dean, dear,” the witch cooed at the sobbing teen, “Be a good boy now and give yourself to Michael. Say yes. Do as your told now.”

Dean knew why he was here. He saw Michael’s crumbling vessel and by all accounts he knew he could contain the archangel indefinitely. Dean knew he could be Michael’s ultimate weapon, his sword to cut the world to pieces. And now this spell, the curse, the torturous spanking—it all made sense. The giant, cosmic loophole that is punishment. As long as he defied Michael’s authority, the curse would bring agony down on Dean—as a consequence. Disciplinary action isn’t _quite_ the same as torture, but can be just as effective. Well, forget it, though he felt like his ass had been crushed under a building, there was no way that Michael could spank him into saying yes.

“Dean? Something to say?” The dark-haired woman asked.

Jack struggled frantically, mouthing_ no._

Dean sniffled loudly, “I’ve got nothing, doll.”

“Well, if you won’t do as I say,” the witch nodded to Michael—who swung.

Dean’s world flooded again with pain. He wanted to call for help--to Sam, to Cas, but his voice ran dry of screams and he just squalled. Desperate for relief, the teen tried to kick his way free of his punishment, but found he—and the chair—were held fast in place. If there was a maximum velocity level for pain, Dean’s backside had reached it, the tremendous slaps going on and on, stoking the inferno behind him.

So many were the spanks, that they blurred together, so Dean didn’t notice when they stopped, abruptly.

“M’Lord! M’Lord, you _must_ be careful!”

“Insolent witch—any damage done the vessel, will heal, when it’s mine.”

Dahlia had to speak up, over Dean’s bawling. “Yes, M’Lord, um—about that.”

“Speak plainly.”

“It’s just that, while the punishment isn’t technically torture and will suffice to gain you your vessel, the de-aging spell has made him vulnerable. You must take care not to break his…spirit. What makes Dean your sword is his soul. You break his spirit; you damage his soul—not even you can fix a soul.”

Michael strode past Dean’s twitching frame to meet the old witch head-on.

“_What—do—you—mean_? He’s a container. A strong one, but that’s all. What would I need with his soul?”

“It’s what makes the container so strong. Dean Winchester is one-of-a-kind.”

“I should kill you now for not telling me this.”

“I only just learned, when I _saw_ it. It shone radiant, but then he suffered…it’s as if it suffered, too.” Dahlia marveled at her new power. She peered at Michael, who looked puzzled, “You _can_ see it, can’t you, M’Lord?”

“Of course, I can see it—it has no importance.”

“It has the most importance.”

“You dare correct me, woman.”

Dahlia pressed on, “Hear me, M’lord—you need him whole. If the Righteous Man’s soul is not intact, the vessel will fail.”

Michael seethed at her words and his rage poured forth. The angel’s eyes glowed blue and the lightning crackling from his hands, raised Dahlia off the floor. “Fail or succeed, I’ll do it without your insolence.” The archangel’s power engulfed the witch, but his light only folded in on itself, as she called on power of her own—and vanished.

Michael stared at the spot Dahlia had been for a moment, then turned back to Dean, in frustration, administering another devastating smack. All Dean could do was yowl and continue to sob.

“Fine, I’ll leave off _your _delicate soul.”

Michael lifted Jack so roughly by his shirt that the boy would have cried out, if he could. As it were, his mouth hung open comically, as his blindfold was ripped off and he beheld Michael’s horrible face.

“Half-breed, stripped of his usefulness, you’re not even a proper vessel. Too bad having your grace ripped from you left you too weak to hold me. I had big plans for you, boy. In a millennium, when your grace restored itself, your power would again become unprecedented—and I would have made it mine. But—” the angel yanked Jack’s wrists apart, snapping the rough ropes into his skin, as the teen was slammed against the wall. Jack was splayed out flat, limbs stretched painfully. Dean’s eyes widened, watching from over the chair, as Jack’s lips drew back in a silent grimace, his eyes scrunched tight.

“Plans change.” Michael turned back to his first victim, “If you can’t be reformed through punishment, I’ll strip the flesh from your impotent Nephilim, until you change your mind.”

“N-n-no! Hit me again! C’mon, asshole.”

Michael raised his hand and Dean cringed. Then came a nauseating squelching sound, as a tear opened in Jack’s shirt and bloodied tissue spilled out.

“No, no, no! You son of a bitch, you’ll kill him!”

“I’m resigned to his sacrifice—are you?”

Another slash across Jack’s trembling frame the teen’s gut opened, his face a mask of pain.

“Say yes and he’s whole again.”

Dean sobbed, “Nooooo,” as Jack’s arm bones snapped.

“Tsk, but this is no fun.” Michael waved his hand and every inch of the room echoed with Jack’s tortured cries. The terrible screams were distressing enough, but when Jack began to blubber and plead, Dean knew he couldn’t hold out, long.

_Cas, man, please tell Sammy goodbye—and I’m sorry. _


	18. Baggage

The man in the cheap suit walked briskly, his coat billowing around him. Awkwardly, he trailed a small piece of luggage behind him—awkward because it weighed very little and his pace kept bouncing it off its wheels. It carried no clothes, no razor, not even a book. The only reason Cas needed luggage at all was to check his angel blade for his international flight home. 

Home. This whole trip had seemed a game of cat and mouse to the angel. He felt that Michael knew where he was, despite his warding—as the archangel seemed to have just left wherever Cas arrived. And now Dean and Jack had been taken—and Cas felt how very far he was home. At one time, all Castiel needed was to stretch his dark wings and think where he was going—and he was there. Of all the celestial gifts Cas had lost in his fall from Heaven, he missed his wings the most. But while crossing the Italian Via to the airport, the angel just longed terribly for home.

And so that’s all Cas thought of, as he performed the mundane tasks it now took him to get there. He thought of Dean’s young voice on the phone—and thought for a brief moment he heard it again. “Sir?” The man behind the counter reached out. The angel produced the passport and ID’s Sam had made him and placed his near-empty bag on the scale.

But before the baggage handler could finish tagging the tweed case, a slim hand smoothly lifted the handle. “I think you’re going to want to hold onto this.”

Cas stared at the dark-haired woman, non-plussed. Something was _off_ about her looks—she was almost too beautiful. She reached out a lovely, dark hand, with a perfect smile. “You’re Castiel. Dahlia Rose.”

“Excuse me, Sir? Sir? Mr. Winchester, will you be checking your bag?”

Dahlia withdrew her hand, “No, no he won’t. Other travel arrangements have been made for _Mr. Winchester._”

Cas finally seemed to come to as he hurriedly followed the clacking boots, carrying the slim, dark woman—who was making off with his angel blade. “Stop, wait. You—you’re the one who cursed Dean—why?”

“Because Michael told me to.”

Cas made a grab at his bag, as he made to shove the witch with his other hand—but didn’t accomplish either. Instead he stood stock-still with his arms cocked in odd positions. Cas’ skin frosted over, as the busy airport bustled around him and flights were announced overhead. 

“Easy, angel. Hear me out. Turns out Michael screwed me over—go figure.”

She drew so close to Cas’ ear; he could feel her hot breath against his neck. “He tried to kill me. I was never one of his super-monsters, destined for his army against mankind—he only gave me power to help convince his true vessel to let him in.”

The witch watched a vein crackle and bulge on the angel’s neck. She waved away the freezing spell and Cas’ color returned.

Cas sputtered, “And has he? Has Dean said yes?”

“He hadn’t yet, when I fled for my life. What an amazingly resilient spirit. But I’m afraid Michael will push him too far—pissed him off immeasurably when I told him not to damage Dean’s soul.”

Cas sighed his relief, then raised his chin, momentarily proud of his friend, only to dissolve into worry. When Dean and Jack were taken, his initial concern was for their lives—but the angel knew from experience, there were worse things than dying.

“And Jack?”

“Lucifer’s boy? Michael had no plan to harm his new pet, but—” the witch spoke through gritted teeth, “then again, the archangel can be fickle. 

He does as he pleases, when he pleases.” 

The witch stood perfectly straight, with her boots crossed, as she watched Cas’ eyes slam shut. He jolted, losing his footing. 

Cas had heard Dean’s prayer.

He nearly growled, “Where are they?”

“I can take you there, Castiel, but not show my face. In and out, we will take the boys and go—but you have to promise me something, in return. I hope you are more trustworthy than your archangel brother.” She held something out.

Taking a grip on his proffered blade, Cas spoke through his own gritted teeth.

“_That_ archangel is not my brother.”


	19. In and Out

Dean Winchester had reached his breaking point. Long since Michael had stopped beating him, his hold was released and the teen slid off the chair, onto the carpet—where he curled into his aching body and squeezed his eyes shut against a scene of horrific gore. Averting his gaze did nothing to drown out Jack’s cries of torture. “N-no m-more...” Jack’s worn voice gurgled, blood spilling from his lips.

“I’m afraid that’s up to your friend.” The ruthless angel feigned gentleness, in his voice and actions, smoothing his fingers through the mix of blood and sweat in Jack’s hair.

“P-pl-pl-pl,” was all Jack could manage.

“I think he’s talking to you, Dean.”

Dean opened an eye, then shut it tight. Jack was more blood and raw meat than young man. His clothes had long since been flayed off, along with nearly every inch skin; Jack’s broken bones were exposed, along with his organs—one eyeball hung useless against the boy’s heaving cheek. 

Jack was a goner, impossibly alive after so much blood loss, damage to his insides—and undiluted pain. But the son-of-a-bitch angel kept bringing him back—not healing anything he didn’t have to, just keeping him alive—a cat playing with his food.

But Jack knew he was going to die—once a Nephilim with the power to wake The Empty, now he was going to die human—and at the hands of an Archangel. He had hunted all form of monster, glimpsed other worlds with a Dreamwalker, and faced off with the devil, himself. But now Jack was a suffering, scared boy, facing death. And darkness.

Dean heard Michael say, “Nuh-uh-uh and he knew Jack must have again slid from consciousness. The angel snapped his fingers and Jack gasped wetly, panting as he tried to catch his breath.

“Something you’d like to say to Dean, Jack?”

Jack gulped blood, unable to speak, until Michael pressed a finger to his bleeding throat and Jack gurgled, “Dean, listen, p-please, please say…”

Dean opened his reddened eyes and looked up. It was hard to hold Jack’s gaze, with only his one eye, but Dean gave his friend his whole attention.

“Please, Dean, ya…gotta s-say…”

Dean thought he was long out of tears, but they stood anew in his eyes.

“S-say—”

The room swirled with energy, wind, and dark light. 

For a terrifying moment, Dean lost sight of Jack, then—

The bunker?

Jack’s wilted body lay surrounded by impossibly bright blue light.

Cas’ trench coat slipped over the naked boy, cradled in the angel’s glowing arms—ruined flesh knitting back together.

Dean was vaguely aware of his name being called, more aware of the sensation of his numb wrists being untied. When he was engulfed in huge, warm arms, he knew they were Sam’s—and they really were home.


	20. I Need You to Hear Me

The teen sat on his bed and stared at nothing. He rubbed absent-mindedly at his healed buttocks; the memory of the searing pain still fresh. He had seriously screwed the pooch this time—not that he believed anyone, anywhere deserved the ordeal he had just—_they_ had just survived, but the young hunter couldn’t help but feel that whatever came next, he certainly had coming.

Which is why when the door opened, Dean couldn’t even look up. “I’m sorry, Sammy—this is all my fault.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Green eyes met blue eyes.

“Yes, yes, it is your fault,” Cas confirmed; his voice deeper than usual—steely.

“Cas. Look, I know I screwed up and I’m sure Sam doesn’t want to even look at me, but I’m sorry—”

“Sorry for what, Dean? You’re sorry you manipulated Jack into this or that it got you both tortured?”

Dean crammed his hands in his jean pockets.

“I know about the spell you found, Dean. Jack knew something was wrong, but you ignored him.”

“It was a chance to fix things, to make me _me_ again, so I could fight back against Michael and—”

“You opened the wards and let him right in!”

Dean’s jaw snapped shut.

The hunter had grown accustomed to the sense of danger in the way Cas spoke, to the echo of immense power, jammed into a rumpled business suit. This ominous quality meant the angel very seldom needed to raise his voice, so when he did—Dean stood in front of his old friend, feeling small and young—and completely reproached. The image of Jack’s mangled frame forefront in his mind—so, so much blood. He blinked the image away and sniffed.

“Jack almost died cuz of me. Look, I know it’s all my fault.”

Cas stepped closer, a little less ire broiling off his vessel.

“Jack almost died because of Michael. I wish I could say you’ve been punished enough, but that was not Michael’s true intention.”

“Th-that? That was a pickle taco.”

Cas nodded, knowingly, “Your non sequitur says it all—I know Michael hurt you badly, Dean.”

“That bastard nearly _killed_ Jack.”

Cas slid an arm around Dean’s narrow shoulders and guided him to sit again on the memory foam. The angel gazed down at the teen, “This is true, but I don’t want you to blame yourself wholly for that. Your actions may have led you two into Michael’s hands, but he is evil and unconscionable and completely responsible for the pain he caused.”

Dean shuddered, “It was horrible, Cas—hearing Jack scream like that.”

“I’m sure. Jack felt the same way, hearing your cries.”

“I didn’t—”

Cas settled next to his young friend, patting his shoulder.

“I know the way the spell affects you, Dean and I know how badly the curse makes corporal punishment hurt.”

Dean looked away, his cheeks flushing.

“Sam felt the spankings were curbing the spell’s influence, but I’m surprised you acted out so soon after Bobby—“

Dean snapped, “Can we not talk about it, please?”

Cas stood and began to shuck off his trench coat, “Fine, Dean, we’ll skip the talk.”

“W-what? _You_? Aw c’mon, Cas—we’re friends.”

Cas lay both his coat and jacket neatly on a chair, unbuttoning his cuffs.

“Sam informed you that continued disobedience on your part would lead to me taking over your disciplinary duties, did he not?”

As Cas finished rolling up his sleeves, Dean stammered, “B-b-but—you’re an _angel_!”

Cas spread his now bare forearms, displaying himself, matter-of-factly. 

“I am,” he answered, with a familiar head-tilt.

Dean was growing desperate. He scooted back on the bed, curling his knees to his chest.

“Cas, please.”

“Dean, come here.”

Dean stayed put.

Cas knelt one knee on the mattress, reached across and scooped Dean up with one hand, depositing him on his feet. The two stood toe-to-toe a moment, as Dean got over the shock of being handled like a toddler.

Pressing a steadying palm on Dean’s back, Cas spoke low, “Dean, I know my strength and I understand the curse. You know I won’t truly harm you.” The strong hand was guiding the stunned boy once again to the bedside. “But I am going punish you.”

Cas took a seat and gently brought Dean to stand by his left knee.

“This will be unpleasant.”

Dean felt like he was in a trance. Something inside sort of clicked when Cas picked him up. Cas was strong—_very_ strong—and protesting against the punishment Dean knew the angel was set on delivering was futile. He had felt small, being lectured, but now he felt wholly young—mind and body. The solid inevitability of receiving what he deserved, even knowing his best friend was about to spank him seemed _somehow _ok—almost fitting. The image of a bloodied Jack flashed again—had it ever left? Dean heard Cas speaking, the angel’s familiar rumbling resonated around him, like a hug. He began to feel more grounded, more anchored. Then Cas was undoing his jeans and Dean got up close and personal with the bedspread.

Cas adjusted the boy easily, resting Dean’s upper body on the bed, while aligning his target over his right knee.

Dean flinched when he felt Cas’ hand rest on his boxers. The angel gave Dean’s young bottom a pat, secured him in position, then landed a solid smack.

“Ow!”

Damit. Dean really wanted to be cool—after all, this was his friend.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK!

“Yeeeeooooow-ow-ow-ow!!!!”

Fuck cool—it _hurt_—not anywhere as much as Michael had hurt him, but the curse still amplified the burn. And this was Cas. During the pause, Dean fought to catch his breath; hot tears wetting his cheeks. His backside throbbed already, though he knew Cas had only just begun. Dean realized he was now the world’s leading expert on being spanked by an angel. He felt the angel shift him forward and closed his eyes tightly.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

“OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW! Caaa-a-a-as!”

Dean’s feet pedaled the air, as he tried to squirm his hips out of the way, but the angel’s hand found its mark again and again, steady and sound. The spanking continued, at a breathtaking pace, while Dean howled and bucked, venting his anguish on Cas’ pant leg, wringing it in both hands. When Cas stopped again, the angel had spanked the squirming young hunter a total of twenty times.

Dean swore it was fifty. His thin body hitched, as he sobbed out his pain. 

Cas released his grip and began to rub Dean’s back, while his young friend struggled to find his voice.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry, C-Cas. J-Ja-a-ck…m-my fault…butchered him…”

The rest of Dean’s lament dissolved into unbridled sobbing.

“I told you, Dean—you did not do those awful things to Jack. You’re being punished you because you were reckless, with your life. And you were manipulative, convincing Jack to go along with you. Children playing with spellwork.”

Dean’s bottom was ablaze—again He flinched at Cas’ harsh scolding, like the angel was still pounding on his rear. Cas was right, he had been reckless and knew he didn’t deserve to be forgiven. The tears came even harder, as Dean clenched his fists and ranted,

“It-it was allmyfault-Imafuckup,Cas-Ifuckedup-Ialwaysfuckup—YOOOOOOOOOOW!” Dean let out a screech and dissolved back into tears.

Until then, Cas had actually not spanked Dean very hard at all, knowing the curse would do the job for him—but this time, he delivered an honest-to-goodness wallop, right where the boy would sit.

“Dean, I need you to hear me.” The angel’s voice filled the room, steady and calm. Cas’ spanking hand rubbed some of the recent sting away, while he spoke, “Dean, you acted out and made a mistake, but you are not a fuck up—do you understand? Dean Winchester is strong, smart, and capable—and you are my friend. I know I’ve been firm, but Dean, when your punishment is over, you will know you have been forgiven. Can you forgive yourself?”

Dean found it even more difficult to hear Cas’ words of praise than his lecture. He was a fuck up, how could he be forgiven?

And—wait—_when_ his punishment is over?

The friendly hand turned traitor, as Cas lowered Dean’s shorts, the teen sobbing his protest. Though the angel knew he had tempered his strength, he was relieved to find only a bright pink bottom—highlighted by a reddening handprint, just above Dean’s bare thighs. Cas planted another, just like it, a bit to the left and waited for its recipient’s howls to die down.

“Dean Winchester, I forgive you.”

_This sucked. _More spanking and_ this, too_? Dean couldn’t hear it. He just cried.

WHACK

A matching outline to the right.

“I know you can do better, Dean, because you _are_ better.”

Sweet mercy, Cas’ hand again soothed his friend’s now red bottom, while Dean coughed and hiccupped through heart-wrenching sobs.

“And we love you, Dean Winchester—all of us, your family.”

“P-please, Cas.”

Strong fingers ran gently through Dean’s hair. “Shhh-shhh, I know this is hard for you, but you have to hear me, Dean. We will put this behind us, but you must, too.”

WHACK

Right in the middle. Cas winced—that spot looked really sore.

“AAAUUGH! I’ll be goo-oo-ood! I can be good!”

Cas lifted Dean easily into his arms, where the boy clung to him, soaking his shirtfront with tears. Gently rocking his little hunter, Cas kissed his hot forehead, “Shhhhhh, now. You’ll be good because you _are_ good, Dean. Shhhh, it’s over and you are forgiven.”

Dean didn’t care about covering his scorched bottom, he didn’t give a thought to bawling like a baby, and certainly could give a shit that he was blowing snot on an angel of the Lord—all he cared about were Cas’ soft, cleansing words. To Dean, they meant Sam could count on him again, Jack would find a way to trust him, and Cas would still be his friend.

After some time, Dean told the wet shirt, “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“I know, Dean.”

“W-would you heal me, again?”

“Maybe—but not yet. I’m sure your backside feels badly damaged, but it’s not.”

Dean buried his face against his angel, with a groan.

“I’ve got ten avocados on my saddle!”

“You can say that again, cowboy.” 


	21. Empty

The woman’s head snapped to the side, but recovered from the slap immediately. 

“Tell me why you did it!”

She was mostly attractive—high cheekbones, full lips, and neat, short dirty-blond hair. Her smile was pretty, aside from a trickle of blood from her split lip—a smile that would have reached her eyes, had they not shone solid black.

“Tell me why you cry after you masturbate, Nick.”

Again, he swung across the edge of the devil’s trap and struck the possessed woman.

“Th-that woman—that reporter, you’re the one she saw, aren’t you? You’re the one who told her to change her story.”

“Told her?” the demon chuckled, “I rode that meatsuit and fed her editor that bogus story about you, myself.” She watched the agitated man pace the edge of the sigil. “Her _mysterious source—_I left before she lost her job.”

“Then I lost _my_ job, when I became a suspect. There was no evidence, my name was cleared, but by then my friends were gone, my family dead.”

Nick broke down, “My life was in ruins.”

The demon looked positively cheerful. “That’s right—you were broken and hopeless and hollow—just a perfect vessel for my old master.”

Nick’s anger burned through his tears, “Lucifer? This was all his _plan_?”

“What, you think The Morning Star would pick a vessel by random? You were groomed, Nick—you should be honored.”

“He took my liiiife!” Nick’s voice boomed off the walls of the closed garage. He pressed the tip of the stolen angel blade against the demon’s chest. “And you took my family.”

“Nick! Nick, don’t do it.” Mary Winchester stepped into the body shop, her gun drawn. “That’s a human girl its inside of—she could be still alive.”

“So? _I’m not_. I’m dead inside. I’m a discarded vessel and everything I lost before Lucifer used then left me is still lost. There’s nothing--no love, no life, no power. I’m _empty_!”

“No. Nick, you’re not. You—"

He plunged the blade down, but inexplicably, it stopped short, a rush of power filling the room.

Nick watched as the demon smoked out of the girl’s mouth and nose—and burned up in mid-air, with a fading screech.

“Oh no, Mary, he’s right,” said a perfectly beautiful woman. 

Though the garage swirled with wind, the woman’s dark dress and hair remained still. Black boots tapped along the cement floor, as the figure approached Nick in the devil’s trap. Her hand caressed his hair.

“He’s quite empty—but I know just how to fill him back up.”


	22. Safe

Jack was in bed, when Dean quietly entered his darkened room. Dean could just make out the mound under the covers. “Jack? Can we talk?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Gingerly taking a seat beside the mound, Dean whispered, “How are you feeling?”

“Ok.” _Was that a sniffle?_

“You were a rock star, Jack. So brave. What Michael did—”

“Cas healed me. I’ll be fine, now.” Jack shifted under the covers. “But I’ll never forget.”

Dean made a face. In the dark, Jack’s monotone speech made it difficult to tell if he was mad.

“You mad?”

“At you, Dean? No. And you’re the rock star, for not saying _yes_.”

“Believe me, I wanted to, Jack. All you had to do was ask.”

“Believe me, I wanted to, Dean.” 

They sat in silence a few moments, then Jack spoke, “I went against my instincts when I disobeyed Sam and helped you cast the spell, but I did it willingly.”

“C’mon, I twisted your arm.”

“Not really, Dean—I told Sam as much.”

“That was big of you, pal—but I still got what I had coming.”

Jack rolled over, stiffly. “You got it from Castiel?”

Dean felt the heat in his face, but nodded. Something about the way the teen moved made him switch on the light. Jack’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

“Thought you were healed and fine?”

“I got it from Sam.”

Dean’s face went through a comical set of changes, as understanding donned on the young hunter.

“Sam busted your ass? After all the pain you went through?”

“You know what it’s like to be healed, Dean—like waking up and realizing your nightmare wasn’t real.”

Jack seemed far away for a moment. “Sam said I should learn that pain can be different, that it doesn’t have to be cruel. It could be used to_ correct and change my behavior and clean my slate_.” Jack carefully recited Sam’s words.

“You know something, Dean? He was right, it _was_ different. I mean, it hurt, but I feel better, too.”

“Torture and punishment are definitely not the same thing.”

“Definitely. When it was over, my butt was throbbing, but I knew I would be ok. Sam hugged me and I felt, um, safe. Does it feel like that for you, too, Dean?”

This conversation had long since violated Dean Winchester’s comfort zone, but he still felt awful for what had happened—and the kid _had_ just gotten his first spanking—so he squirmed a bit on his own sore end and answered, “Yes, Jack. It feels just like that. Sammy didn’t use a hairbrush, did he? Those are pure evil.”

“No, his hand—but Dean, it’s _huge_. And I thought he would never stop.”

Dean chuckled, “Yeah, seems like he’s trying to break some kind of record, doesn’t it?”

Both teens laughed.

“Dean? Did you ask Cas how we got away?”

“No. I was, er—” Dean cleared his throat, “Too busy feeling _safe_ to ask him.”


	23. How We Got Away

“So, she just popped into the airport and said _can I help you_?”

Cas sat at the head of the map table, Dean and Jack to his right and left and Sam at the opposite end, behind his ever-present laptop. The wards were re-drawn and strengthened—even Cas couldn’t enter without tripping an alarm—the residents of the bunker were taking no chances. 

The angel raised his brow, “Pretty much, Dean, yes. Of course, she asked for my help in return—to stop Michael.”

“You’ve tried to track him yourself, Cas, and we all got bupkis on killing him—how exactly does this Dahlia think we can help? And if she’s teleporting, where the Hell is she now?”

A knock at the steel door made everyone jump. Cas motioned for the others to stay behind, as he drew his sword and opened the door.

“Sorry to make ya get up, angel, dearie, but y’ve bloody-well locked me out.”

Rowena made her way inside and sat with the group—_after_ fixing herself a brandy. As she was briefed, the witch laughed into her drink, “Dahlia thinks she can defeat Michael? _ Dahlia_ _Rose_?”

“Michael has imbued your old friend with a potion made from his grace, the same way he’s enhanced his army of monsters.” 

Rowena coughed and sobered, narrowing her eyes at the angel. “She’s not my friend.”

Cas continued, “In some aspects, she may be more powerful than the archangel, especially since his vessel has become so unstable in our world. He’s had little luck finding another vessel strong enough to hold him, aside from Dean.”

“Well, if all migh’y Dahlia’s packing tha’ kind of juice, why not kill him, herself?”

“Don’t think she can. Plus, she’s afraid of him. I saw him try to kill her.”

Dean’s revelation raised Rowena’s brow. 

“He threatened her, too. If she tries and fails, he can do worse than kill her, he can take her power—all of it.”

“That’s our bargaining chip?” Sam’s forehead made like uncooked ramen, “With the world at stake, feels like we’re putting a lot more on the line.”

Rowena cleared her throat and stood, her gown sparkling under the bunker’s artificial lights. “As much as it causes me nausea t’say so,” the witch sighed, “We need Dahlia Rose.” She daintily removed an invisible speck off her sleeve. “Oooooor, we need t’kill her. Either way, only she can remove Dean’s curse.”

There was no comment from the Winchester gallery.

Then, Sam spoke, “Check this out, archangel mojo has to trump the spell, or Michael wouldn’t have been so quick to try to end Dahlia. And the curse would’ve only been on Dean, so it wouldn’t affect him.”

Dean nodded, curious where his brother was going.

“He needs to be able to make an adult Dean for a vessel.”

“Right, Sammy—we know this. So how—”

“How do we keep Dean young?” That was Cas.

“Wait-what?”

Rowena snapped her fingers, “Of course. We need a way to make the spell permanent.”

“Excuse me—what?”

Dean looked from his brother to Cas to Jack to Rowena, then back to Sam.

“WHAT? Permanent? You mean stuck like this?”

“Younger would be even better, sweetie.”

Dean was growing frantic, “You can’t be serious—Sammy, I can’t_ stay_ this way. I’m thirty-three!”

“We’ll do all we can to get Dahlia to remove the curse, Dean.”

“All we can,Sam? That’s not enough—growing up once was enough.”

“I’m sure, Dean, we can all understand—”

“_You_ can’t, Cas. You’ve never had your voice crack or your face break out.”

Cas knitted his brow, “Well, no.”

“Or your ass busted.”

Cas shook his head—Dean had a point, there.

Jack came to Dean’s aid, “Well, I have. And I can tell you it’s not fun. You can’t keep Dean like this.”

“Calm down, Jack. Dean, hear me out.” Sam leaned on his elbows, emphasizing with his hands. “First, we get Dahlia to remove the curse and reverse this spell.”

“Aces.”

“But then, we have her de-age you again—” Sam raised a palm to stop his brother from interrupting. “But this time she’ll use a curse.”

Rowena closed her heavily-shadowed eyes, then opened them, slowly. “O’course. He needed Dahlia’s power to curse that spell, so he mustn’t be able to.”

Poor Dean was beside himself, at this point—he couldn’t quite remember ever being this slow. “Isn’t able to what?”

“To place a _curse_, Dean.” Rowena spoke slowly, like Dean had the education of a sea slug. “The archangel can’t curse, _ergo_ the blighter can’t _un_curse.”

Jack got it, “So, it would only be permanent to Michael.”

Dean glanced around at the nodding heads. “Soooo, Michael can’t re-age me, but Dahlia can, by lifting the curse?”

Rowena tapped her painted nail on Dean’s freckled nose. “Bingo, baby.”

“Well, Rowena?”

“Well what, Samuel?”

“Are you gonna go find us your—”

“Not if you say_ friend_.”

Sam’s jaw clapped shut.

“Rowena,” Cas’ voice was commanding, “Go find us that witch.”


	24. That Witch

Nick was having a bad day. He not only just learned that his family’s demise was part of Satan’s grand plan, but first Mary Winchester, then that crazy bitch showed up, before he got to kill the demon directly responsible. Bound to the floor by the witch’s spell, Nick couldn’t help but feel these were not first world problems.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Mary tending to the exorcised woman, then—

“W-where’d she go?”

“I sent her, eh, somewhere. She was in the way.”

_That_ was the meddling woman—the one who ruined everything.

“What are you?” Nick thought Mary sounded mistrustful, as she well should.

“I was a witch, a very old one, but still, just a witch. Then, the archangel who wants your son found me. He made me an offer. Untold power for Dean Winchester’s _yes_.”

“But Castiel says an angel can’t claim its vessel by force.”

“True, true. But I was the means to an end. Michael discovered a—_technicality_. I cursed your son.”

“_You. _It was your de-aging spell.” Mary stood. “What did you do to my boy?”

“Do? I saved his skin—quite literally. Easy, Mother Winchester, I’m on your side, now. Michael may have given me a powerful gift, but he proved himself all-too-eager to retract it.”

“So, what the Hell d’you want with me?”

Dahlia stood over Nick’s paralyzed body. “Oh, you, my troubled little serial-killer. You’re going to become a lot more powerful—_but_ to do so, I’m afraid, you’ll become a whole lot less free.”

“Fuck you, bitch—you took away my only power. I had the right to kill that—nnnng.”

The witch’s boot rested on Nick’s head, as his eyes bugged out and he made a noise—from his nose. The man’s mouth was gone. Just gone.

“Hush, fool. You will be useful, in time.”

Dahlia stepped away, as Mary knelt by Nick’s side, touching his disfigured face. “Please, please, this is cruel. I’ll gag him, just give him his mouth back.”

“He will get it back, in perfect working order. It only has to say one word.”


	25. Our Bitch

Rowena MacCleod didn’t want to find Dahlia Rose. Learning that her age-old rival had gained super-witch status only cemented the red-head’s deep-seated hatred for the witch. Why had Michael chosen her, anyway? Rowena had become powerful, in her own right—the knowledge she’d gained from The Book of the Dead had strengthened her centuries of craft in the light—but mostly the dark arts. Still, Rowena could only cast a spell as written by her alphas—for customization she needed an editor and that’s the only reason she had brought Dahlia into the war against the archangel. Even that short interaction was too much. In fact, as Rowena begrudgingly set out on her search, she thought she would be happy if she never laid eyes on the dark-haired witch again. She opened the bunker door.

“Rowena MacCleod, nothing for all these years, now twice in a month.”

Turning on her very high heel, Rowena started down the metal staircase. “Found her, angel.”

Dahlia Rose stood on the bunker stoop. And she wasn’t alone.

“Mom!” Dean and Sam were on their feet, Dean pushing past the witches to hug Mary. “How are you here? Are you ok?”

“Dahlia found me. It’s good to be home.”

As the dark witch stepped right between the wards and into the bunker, Cas greeted her, “We have a plan, but we need your help.”

“Funny—I was about to tell you the same thing.”

Dahlia looked from the angel to the witch, to the hunters, sitting around the map table.

“So, that’s it? Curse Dean and then what?”

Jack spoke, “And then Dean will be safe, while we devise a plan to stop Michael.”

Dahlia chuckled, then laughed outright, drumming the heels of her boots on the floor. Rowena’s lips pressed into a thin, pink line.

“Soooo, your plan is you have to make a plan, is that correct?”

Jack fell silent.

Clearing his throat, Sam sat forward, folding his hands on the table. “We don’t have much, at the moment, but my brother’s safety comes first. We were hoping you could help us fight Michael.”

The witch tittered again, shaking her dark head, “My, my, my, Rowena. Among the covens, your alliance with the Winchesters had brought you back a modicum of respect, but here, I find them just as ineffectual as you.”

Rowena’s body thrummed with energy, while Dahlia’s did the same. The witches stood toe-to-toe and the room crackled with magical chutzpa.

“Shrew.”

“Hag.”

“Tramp.”

Rowena’s eyes were mere slits, as she spat,

“_Old_.”

Sam seemed small standing beside the glow of power, coming off the women, so he approached them—carefully.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we don’t have time for your wizard’s duel, ladies. We all want Michael defeated, put away your wands and let’s work together. Please?”

The women gradually drew apart, skin still aglow, their powers simmering just under the surface. With flaming eyes still locked, slowly, they sat.

As Sam took a seat beside his mother, Dean leaned over, “Harry Potter, Sam? They’re not even wizards.”

Sam shrugged, “It worked.”

Dahlia sighed, “Well, this,” she waved her hand, dismissively, whatever it is, is not going to work. I have power and plan to use it. Have fun with your merry band of losers, dearie.”

As the older witch made to leave, Rowena opened her mouth, but Dean was on his feet, knocking his chair back. “Listen, witch, just because we don’t have it figured out yet, doesn’t mean we’re losers,” he thrust his finger toward Rowena, “And neither is she.”

Rowena lifted her chin and preened, basking in Dean’s defense, as he continued, “She might be a bitch, but she’s _our_ bitch.” 

The witch’s pomp wilted like a daisy in a sauna.

“Our Mom can hunt anything and before he lost his grace, Jack could wipe the floor with you. And me and Sam and Cas, we beat the devil himself.”

The dark witch paused by the door.

“About that.” 


	26. Anyone, Anywhere

“Dean, calm down—Dahlia’s plan could work.”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work, Cas, I said it’s not right.”

Sam sighed heavily, “Dean, at this point, I’m afraid we don’t have any other choice.”

Dean’s gaze bounced between the two men, “So, that’s it? He was their problem in the first place, so _screw their world, they can have him back_?”

“Michael is too powerful for any of us to kill, our best chance is to lock him away.”

Cas leveled young Dean with a stare, “If that means sending him back to the apocalypse universe, then—yes.” Cas let out his own, angel-sized sigh, “Our plan will keep you safe and Dahlia’s will save the rest of our world.”

Dean paced, “I don’t believe you guys! Mom? What do you say?”

“Sweetheart, we did what we could over there, brought back so many hunters with us—” Mary reached for her son, “I’m sorry, but it’s like they said, we don’t have another way. Michael will destroy our world, too.”

Dean took a step back, not even trying to hide the betrayal from his face. “Mom, you fought beside them.”

Mary’s face was pained, as she looked at the others in the room, the ceiling, the table—anywhere but Dean.

The young hunter squared off with the witches, “So, Nick’s this ready-made archangel vessel and he’s gonna say yes to Michael, _because you say he will_ and then what? What guarantee do we have that he’ll have any more control over Michael than I would? Mom says he’s been stabbing his way through Delaware; something tells me he’s not exactly interested in the greater good. And why wouldn’t Michael have asked to wear him, already?”

Dean folded his arms across his narrow chest, “You better cough up some answers, lady, cuz so far, your plan stinks like toe cheese,”

Dahlia sat stock straight in her chair, looking every bit as confident as she sounded. She spoke slowly, enunciating her words in a voice one would use to explain to a toddler how to file taxes.

“Nick’s body may be human, but his mind is more devil than man—he simply housed Lucifer too long to have escaped whole. Nick yearns for the drive, the rancor and the furor—the _power_ that once filled him, like a junkie jonesing for his next fix. He’s lost. He needs Michael. But Michael sees Nick as damaged goods, tainted by Lucifer—an unfit vessel.”

“So, what makes you think he’s ready to settle for the devil suit?”

Dahlia continued in the same plodding manner, “Because, Dean, as your angel has suggested, we will make you permanently unreachable to him. If we can inflict more damage to Michael’s failing vessel—he’ll be desperate. He knows heaven his defunct, so he’ll need the means to function, here. Nick’s greatest fear is loss—he will want Michael unchallenged. I have a spell, to give Nick enough control to force Michael back through the rift, into his own world.”

“We don’t even know how to find Michael.”

“I can find anyone, Dean. Anywhere,” Dahlia stated, cooly.

Dean made his exaggerated Big Whoop Face. “And I suppose you’ve figured out how to reopen the rift, too, Wonder Witch?”

Rowena finally spoke, “I can do that—if _she’ll_ stoop to accepting help from someone who’s dunnit.”

“Oh, so I suppose _Miss Dunnit_ won’t need the trace archangel grace I extracted from the devil’s vessel?”

The women’s sneers were almost audible.

Mary broke the tension, “Dahlia, what have you done to Nick?”

The witch beamed, gesturing with her chin and tapping her boot heel, “He’s fine. Well, besides mouthless. All angels leave a grace stain on their vessels—not everyone possesses the skill to harvest it. He’s locked in your dungeon.”

Dean was on his feet again, “Fine, fine, let’s put our faith in an axe-murderer and the wicked witches, while I go back to potty training and Michael goes back to annihilating his world. Awesome.”

Dean turned his back on the room, his head in his hands. He hated this plan—every bit of it. He didn’t want to be young anymore, to lose himself even further—he was Dean Fucking Winchester. And he just couldn’t shake the sickening feeling sending Michael back to finish off that retched, desecrated world gave him. There were still people there, people who were saved when Michael left. If he returned, they didn’t stand a chance. It was as good as murder. It was wrong.

Dean felt hands on his shoulders, and turned to see Sam and Cas. “Dean, we don’t know what else to do.” Dean swiped at his wet eyes (stupid spell), his voice tiny, “Sammy, It’s wrong.” As Dean leaned into his brother’s hug, he heard the finality in Cas’ voice, “Dean, we agree it’s not right. But it’s the only way.”

“No, it’s not.”

Until then, Jack had sat in silence, watching and listening—thinking.

“Dean’s right—sending Michael back there is wrong. Something Cas said got me thinking.” Jack turned to Dahlia, “Can you really find anyone, anywhere? _From_ anywhere?”

The witch nodded her dark head.

Cas asked, “What did I say, Jack?”

“Our best chance is to lock Michael away—but where?” Cas raised his brow as Jack turned away.

“Dahlia, just how much of Lucifer’s grace did you get from Nick?”


	27. Darth Dickwad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, remember I mentioned at the beginning there would be a bit of canon vs fiction continuity error? I ask that you, dear reader, just assume that sometime between coming back from Apocalypse World and Dean's de-aging, the Winchesters had a run-in with someone familiar-looking.  
And, um, lost her sword, or something.

A glob of spit landed on Sam’s shoes.

“Why would I help you?”

“I’ve told you; we can help _you._ We get you home.”

It had taken Dahlia less than an hour to locate the copy of Kaia, from The Bad Place, zoning in quickly on the girl’s otherworldly signature. Being from an alternate universe, the being that looked like Kaia Nieves gave off an energy unlike anything around her. Though she fought for her life, the dark Kaia succumbed quickly to Dahlia Rose’s powers and awoke to find herself chained in a seat magicked to the floor, in the middle of The Winchester’s bunker. 

And she was pissed.

The young woman’s dark eyes narrowed, as she spat again. “Your brother’s empty promise hasn’t become any truer. Now I’ve lost my spear, the Archangel lives, and I’m-still-here.” As the spittle flew, some clung to her corkscrew curls, but most landed on the hunter. Sam gazed down at the bound girl.

“I think she’s warming up to you, Sammy. Hey, Darth, do you make that much spit? Eat a lot of dairy, do ya?”

“Dean.”

Something in Cas’ voice made Dean back up against the nearest wall. 

Jack was braver, pulling up a chair inside the “saliva zone” and leaning close. “Look, we need to know, when you took our friend Kaia’s form, did you get anything else from her? Do you have her memories?”

“No.”

“Can you, um, still see your world?”

While Dean thought Jack should quit while he was still dry, he had to admit, that had hit a nerve with the copycat Kaia. The girl’s eyes still bore daggers into her captors, but they couldn’t completely mask her surprise.

“You can, can’t you? Is it when you sleep, like a dream or when you’re awake—like in a trance?”

The girl averted her eyes and set her jaw, her teeth grinding in annoyance.

“Look, dearie,” Rowena said, full of understanding. “I’ll make this simple for ye. I know how to open a rift, like th’one that brought you here—but I need your directions to the right one. I can get you home, _but_—”

Rowena’s sweet lilt sharpened to a razor’s edge, “But if you can dreamwalk, it would behoove your cause, as _we_ need directions elsewhere, first—so, if you’re quite done glowering and expectorating, say so—otherwise, welcome to Earth, dearie. Avoid too much caffeine and learn the internet.”

The witch’s crisp words hung in the air, all eyes on the girl.

“Is that what you call it? At first, I thought I was just dreaming, missing home—but then, it happened in daylight. I started to see things changing, since I’ve been gone. I saw my family, in hiding without my protection.”

For the first time, Kaia’s double looked around the room to the faces of her captors.

“I need to go home.”


	28. Insurance Policy

“Be a love, Dean and fetch me these ingredients from your storeroom.”

Dean’s teen tongue was loaded and cocked with a snappy answer about what the witch could fetch, but truthfully, it had been the first useful thing he’d been asked to do in hours. Both witches had busied themselves with preparing the spells needed, while Jack had sat quietly in the library with the girl who looked like Kaia, sharing his experiences with her namesake’s powers. His voice was low as he guided her through meditation and honing her grasp on her absorbed dreamwalking skills. 

After convincing Dahlia to restore his poor mouth, Sam and Mary had spent time with Nick, making sure he understood the plan and that it was what he really wanted. Nick was a murderer and a sociopath, but both mother and son knew he’d been made—not born that way and they both felt that Nick’s consent was still important. Nick’s stalwart reply, “I want—_need_ the power. I can’t go on like this.”

Cas checked and rechecked the bunker’s wards, retracing many with slight alterations, so only one would have to be struck out to let in what they planned to let in.

Fine, Dean figured playing gopher for Rowena was better than continuing his longest (and annoyingly loud) game of ring toss on the map table. Down in the dungeon storage, the teen rummaged around the dusty shelves, until he found the last bottle the witch needed. Wukong Hair. Why did he know this stuff? Dean reached to the higher, even dustier shelf and pulled down a string-bound volume, titled _Inventory_, _Herbs, Minerals, and Creatures_. The entries inside were all hand-written, dating forward from the forties. Dean flipped toward the back, running his finger down the page: _Wings, Witches, Wolves…Wukong—Wukong Hair_. Dean read the list under the heading to himself, then one entry aloud, “A return to infancy. Son-of-a-bitch.” 

Dean ire rose as realized where he had heard of Wukong Hair—it was the ingredient switched out for Nezha Syrup, which had been used to turn him into a teen, instead of—

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

The young hunter searched the high shelf again, until he found a book titled _Index of Use_ and frantically searched the pages. Slamming the book closed, Dean coughed from the residual cloud of dust, then set about on yet another search.

“Jack, where’s Dean?”

The boy shrugged, “I’ve been with, er, this Kaia. Haven’t seen him.”

As Sam asked around, his increasing annoyance at his younger big brother grew into concern. When Cas and Mary joined the search, but came up empty, Sam’s concern ripened to fury.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Sam, we don’t know that he left—he might have been taken.”

“Not possible, Jack, I checked the wards myself.” Cas looked more worried than angry. “We can’t make a move against Michael until we find Dean.”

“But why would he leave?” Jack asked the room.

“Ahem. Tha’ would be my bad. I asked the boy to help with my supplies.”

“And?”

“And, Samuel, I maaaaaay have included the key note ingredient for the back-up de-aging spell. The very one that would,” Rowena cringed, “make him a wee babe.”

Sam sank into a chair, “Aw, crap. I told you he’d never go for it, if he knew in advance.”

Jack was on his feet. He looked at Sam, incredulous. “Well, neither would I!”

“Jack, please understand,” Mary Winchester’s motherly tone caught the boy’s attention. “It was our insurance policy, in case anything went wrong. Michael can’t have Dean—he’s ours.”

“Oh, and there is that bit where he’d use Dean to destroy the world.”

Jack left the room in a huff, while the rest all stared at the red-head. 

Sam turned to Dahlia Rose, “Find him.”

After a few awkward moments, the dark witch’s eyes rolled back to front and she lowered her chin. “I can’t.


	29. I'm Right Here

“Psst! Jack—it’s me.”

Jack looked around his room, frantically.

“Dean? Where are you?”

“I’m right here, Einstein. In front of you.”

“I hear you, but—are you…are you invisible?”

“He’ll take _The Obvious_ for two hundred, Alex.”

“Huh? What’s going on?” Dean’s disembodied voice was starting creep Jack out.

“Shhh, keep it down. I’m counting on you, here, Jack. You blow the whistle, I’m back in diapers, man.”

“I know, I heard. I understand why, but I don’t think it was fair they were keeping it from you.”

“Ya think? I’m pretty pissed off at them right now, but hey, watch this!”

“I-I don’t see anything.”

“I know, it’s great, huh?”

“But how? I mean, are you like a ghost—can you walk through walls?”

“Naw, kinda sucks. I had to wait for you to open your door. It’s this Polynesian Tiki I found in the dungeon—grants its holder a single wish. I tried to be specific, like the book said, but guess I rushed into it.”

“Can I see it?”

“No, dummy, its _holder_ gets a wish. If I put it down, the jig’s up—haven’t you seen The Brady Bunch?”

“Uhhhh—”

“Well, you can feel it. Hell, you can feel me, if you want—reach out.”

“Whoa, Dean, that’s so strange.” 

“But what’s cool is, Cas can’t even see me—I wished it that way.”

“Oh. So, you’re still fully in the material world.”

Jack watched amazed as a spot on his bed indented. “Well, that part’s kinda messed up—see, some things move around me, but I’m having trouble doing Swayze shit.”

“Who’s Swayze?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a damn movie? 

“I’ve seen some movies. And I can see your butt print on my bed.” 

“Yeah, my body can move things, but I can’t seem to grab anything. I’ll keep working on it.”

“There’s a bigger problem, Dean.”

“You mean, besides my family wanting to wreck my life?”

“Yes, Dean—Cas said they won’t go after Michael while you’re missing.”

“Well, you’re just gonna have to convince them to—_without_ blowing my cover.”

“Me? How? Sam and your Mom are absolutely frantic to find you—and poor Cas. Cas is—"

“Cas is going to listen to Jack Kline. Just do exactly as I tell you, kid.”


	30. Deception, Part 1

“Cas? _Cas?_“

“Oh, sorry, Jack—I was listening.”

“For?”

“For Dean. When you two were caught, Dean prayed to me. But now, nothing. I’m afraid he can’t.”

Jack felt bad, seeing Cas this distressed. But Dean had reassured him that their angel would be fine, once Michael was gone. “Cas always forgives me, Jack—he’s my bestie.” But Jack still hadn’t been convinced. “He’s the only father I’ve ever had, Dean—what if he doesn’t forgive _me_?” Dean thumped his friend, with his inviable shoulder—a very strange sensation for the thumpee. “Even more of a guarantee you two will be cool—that father/son thing is unbreakable. Cas loves the crap outta you, kid.”

Still, Jack was finding this hard. He had never purposefully lied to anyone, let alone someone he cared about. He started slowly, keeping it hypothetical. 

“Cas, I’ve been thinking—if Michael did have Dean and he managed to make Dean say _yes_—”

Cas looked alarmed, so Jack kept talking, fast.

“And say we open the wards and Dahlia summons him here—then, Dean would show up, right?”

“With Michael in control, yes—more powerful than he’s ever been.”

“Yes, but Dahlia said she has a spell that could give control back to Michael’s vessel. She’s planning on using it on Nick, right? So, he’ll take Michael through the rift?”

Understanding dawned on the angel’s face. “Yes, exactly. But, Jack, even if Dean gains control, we can’t lose him to that other world.”

“We wouldn’t have to—if Dean gains control, he can expel Michael and with Heaven closed, he’d have nowhere to go but Nick.”

“Then we finish the original plan,” Cas’ voice was soft, as he mulled over Jack’s idea. “It could work. But what if Michael doesn’t have Dean, Jack? Dahlia says she can’t see him. What if he’s…?”

Jack placed a hand on his father figure’s shoulder. “Think about it, Cas—what’s more likely? That Dean’s out on an invisible adventure somewhere—" An unseen body nudged Jack behind the knee and the boy covered his stumble by leaning in and placing his other hand on Cas’ other shoulder. “Or that he’s been taken by the archangel who needs his vessel?”

So, this was lying. The more Jack spoke, the easier it got to compound his lie and the more he began to believe it—at least a little. 

“Let’s talk to the others.”

All in all, the group inside the bunker had been busy. The witches had begrudgingly worked alongside each other to concoct spells to summon an archangel, a control spell for an occupied vessel, and the recipe to open a rift to another world. Sam and Mary reluctantly abandoned the search for Dean, to join the others—and hear out Cas and Jack. Neither Winchester liked the plan very much, but both had to admit, if Michael had Dean as his vessel, there was little else they could do. 

Dean watched it all, staying far out of the way, while stifling winces from bashing his shins on furniture. He always thought it would be so cool to be invisible, but found it harder than expected to maneuver a body he couldn’t see. He was frustrated at his inability to grab things with his free hand, while excelling at clutching the stupid invisible Tiki. Taking a pee was an Olympic event. He felt kinda bad, watching everyone worry and even worse watching Jack slug his way through his first fib—until the kid almost let the cat out of the bag.

But as he listened to the final plan, something still smelled funky to Dean, like that dark witch was hiding something—the dark witch who was—wait--_looking right at him._ The witch’s deep eyes bore into the young hunter, as Dean pressed himself up against the wall and held his breath—could she see him? Dean felt the invisible sweat trickle down his invisible brow as he fiddled with the Tiki in his sweaty grip. Finally, Dahlia Rose tossed back her head to scoff at something Rowena added to the conversation and Dean Winchester let out a controlled, hot breath. The young hunter slunk off to a far corner, where he felt, despite his invisibility, out of sight.

“Yes, Rowena, darling, hoping this all goes as planned, while sipping brandy and yacking about it won’t get us any closer to being rid of Michael. I’m going to go rustle up an archangel.”

With a puff of superiority, Dahlia was gone.

Rowena took a big swig off her sifter, “Yippee-ki-ya, moth’r-fuckah.”


	31. Deception, Part 2

Dean watched Jack comically tiptoeing through the side halls of the bunker, reaching out and swinging his arms through thin air for almost five minutes, before he was done snickering and spoke. “I’m by my room, Helen Keller.”

“Oh, Dean, good,” Jack’s voice came in a whispered hush, “Look, I’m not sure about all of this. What if Michael senses you when he gets here?”

“How could he? Cas doesn’t and he’s an angel. My brother, my Mom, not even the witches know I’m here.” Dean’s voice lowered at the end, along with some of his brash teen confidence.

“Still, Dean, I think you should stay hidden until it’s over and you’re safe.”

“Who are you, now—Sam? Cas? You know their idea of _keeping me safe_, besides, you think I’m gonna sit this show out?”

Jack set his jaw and looked toward Dean’s voice through narrowed eyes, “Listen, Dean—if you don’t stay where it’s safe, I’ll—_I’ll blow your cover_, I will! I’ll tell everyone that you’re here and what you’ve done.”

Dean chuckled, “Ah, c’mon, kid—you know you won’t. You don’t have it in ya. Besides, they’ll all know you lied.”

Jack’s stern face fell, defeated. He tried a different tactic, “C’mon, Dean, do this for me. You’re right, I lied for you, now the least you can do is not get yourself killed because I did.”

Dean stared at Jack, intently. He looked at the teen like you could only look at someone through a one-way mirror—without being scrutinized back. The kid looked pale, drained by his predicament. As much as he hated to, Dean had to admit it was his fault, entirely. Once again, he dragged his friend into trouble—hadn’t he learned anything over Cas’ knee? Cas’ knee. Convincing Jack that they would be free and clear of repercussions with Michael’s defeat, had been too easy. Dean had _almost_ convinced himself—but he knew it wasn’t true. When this was over, they’d both be in a world of shit. His fault.

“Look, Jack, you’re right. I got us into this, the least I can do is lay low—for you. But listen, kid, if you need me—I mean at all—you holler my name. Capisce?”

“Yes, Dean. I Capisce.”


	32. Deception, Part 3

“I’m guessing you’d like to speak, before I kill you, witch?”

Dahlia groveled on the floor at Michael’s feet, close enough to smell his vessel’s decay.

“M’lord, I have displayed cowardice and treachery. I wouldn’t be so bold as to ask for your forgiveness, I only wish to serve. I beg you, hear me out.”

Michael waved a three-fingered hand (the others had long-since rotted off). Dahlia was flung from the floor against the ceiling—her limbs spread wide.

“You have five minutes. Make it good—and maybe I’ll kill you later.” Michael’s speech was remarkably clear, considering his lack of face.

“My lord, I learned much, in the company of your enemies. I can enter their house, I know their plans. I can offer their liv—”

Dahlia’s throat squeezed shut.

“If the next words out of your perfect mouth aren’t, _I can give you Dean Winchester_, your larynx will reside at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

Dahlia gasped and coughed.

“I can give you, Dean—and he’s eager to say yes.”

Dahlia reappeared in the Map room. “Get Nick and the girl. We’ll have to work fast.” 

Returning from the library with Kaia, Jack stared wide-eyed, as the dark witch passed a small glowing vial to Rowena. “That’s all there is.”

Castiel struck down the wards as Dahlia finished the summoning spell, her incantation echoing off the walls, the room surging with light. When the light faded, there stood the archangel Michael—or what was left of him. The angel’s vessel had grown to resemble something from a George Romero film. The archangel Michael was the walking dead. Parts were missing from his vessel—important parts, like skin and thumbs and, oh gross—his eyes. But Michael’s ghastly form only held the room’s attention for a brief moment.

Standing across from the abomination was six-foot-one, blue jeaned, leather-jacketed—

“Dean!”


	33. The Final Deception

Dean Winchester was being a good friend. He was keeping his promise, despite having to sit out the fight. Dean was practicing constraint, when he wanted nothing more than action. Dean was acting with maturity, though doing so was driving the teenager to distraction. He crouched on the floor, in a cul-de-sac off a main hallway, far from the inevitable conflict—hating every second of it.

Dean Winchester was benched.

After speaking to Jack, Dean had slunk off to his bedroom, but he could still hear the voices from the Map Room—and everything they were saying. He quickly realized he just didn’t have enough self-control for that. Quietly, the teen made his way further into the bunker, until the voices were muffled and he felt decidedly more—alone. 

Dean sighed, leaning his invisible head on his invisible knees, grumbling at the floor tiles, beneath his invisible self, “Don’t forget, now—call me, if you need me.” Somehow, he knew nobody would.

“Dean!”

That was a whole bunch of somebodies.

Dean’s head snapped up so fast, he lost his balance and toppled back against the cinder block wall. He scrambled to his feet and was off, down the hall, around the final bend, then into the Map Room. The room was full, complete with a gross-looking Michael and—what? _Himself?_ As Michael dragged a drooping leg forward, the Dean lookalike clenched a fist and in an instant, the real Dean Winchester learned three things:

First, that he could fly (huh, go figure), second, the thing that looked like him was more than probably the dark witch, and third, Dahlia definitely could see him.

As he came to a stomach-lurching stop mid-air, directly between the archangel and his doppelganger, Dean learned a fourth fun fact: he was totally fucked.

“Ah, you can’t hide that resilient soul, not from my _true_ sight. And all grown up, Dean, as the witch promised—just how I _need_ you.” What was left of Michael’s face looked even worse, as it worked its rotten jaw around language.

“Dean!” But Dean didn’t look, so Sam lunged for his brother, only to be side-tackled by Jack. With Jack clinging on, Sam grappled to push forward, until— “Samuel, wait.”

Rowena drew close and hissed in the hunter’s ear, “It’s an illusion spell, it isn’t him!” Jack nodded and whispered, “Dean’s safe, Sam.”

“No! _ I’m_ the archangel vessel!” Nick was on his knees, by Michael’s feet. “It’s _me_ you need! She promised! Yes, I say _yes_!” Nick’s face was wet with tears.

Barely distracted, Michael’s lip curled, “The witch has made a generous offering of your friends, but I will spare them all—for your _yes_.”

That bitch. But Dean couldn’t speak. If he could, he’d call out to Cas—his angel looked stricken, as the mouth that looked just like Dean Winchester’s said, “_YES_.”

Watching in horror, Cas shielded Mary’s eyes from the column of light that shot from Michael’s mouth. The light scorched the room with its brightness and momentarily swirled in the air, leaving just an empty vessel of a once handsome man, crumpled on the floor in a putrid heap.

Nick squinted and ducked, while the rest held their arms in front of their eyes. The brightness just missed the real Dean, pouring down his double’s throat and making it glow intensely, while lighting its eyes up piercing blue. The immense shadows of Michael’s wings coated the walls behind him. 

The light subsided quickly, though, as Michael looked down at the hands of his shiny, new vessel. “What? Not my sword…but how?”

Michael began to shake violently, then he doubled over. Dean watched what looked like his own spiky hair suddenly bush out into long tresses. The head darkened and lifted and Dahlia Rose looked like herself again. She used the toe of her boot to shove Michael’s empty vessel aside.

She beamed. “Uh, uh, uh—_I’m_ lord now, Michael.” Her eyes glowed sapphire.

“You bitch!”

Dahlia made a theatrical pout, “Aw, now, now, Nick. I was going to cast the illusion spell on you, as planned, _but_ the archangel would have never have mistaken that withered black pit of yours for Dean Winchester’s brilliant soul.” Nick’s despair overtook him and he wept loudly. But with a “hush” he grew abruptly silent—mouthless, again. Dahlia continued, as if interrupted by a sneeze. “Besides, why should the likes of you get _this._” The witch flexed her fingers, watching them glow.

Behind Dahlia, Rowena stood by a copper bowl, adding drops of grace and murmuring an incantation, under her breath. With her eyes tightly closed next to her, the Kaia girl held her hand over the bowl.

Cas spoke up, “How are you doing that? How are you in control?”

“You angels think you’re so all-powerful over your vessels,” Dahlia motioned toward the control spell she had prepared for Nick, “I did what I do best. I found a spell--and I altered it.”

Finishing untying poor Nick, Sam gave Jack the stage sign for _keep rolling_ and the boy joined the stalling game. “But why? While you’re in control, you can’t access Michael’s power.”

Dahlia tittered, “But I can. You fools have no idea what Michael’s potion gave me, the things I can do.”

Mary Winchester cleared her throat, hoping to keep her voice from wavering. Not only was she still in shock that her son _wasn’t_ just possessed by Michael, but she had witnessed firsthand this witch wield her power cruelly. “W-what do you plan to d-do with all that power?” 

“Anything I want.”


	34. The Final FINAL Deception (no, really)

Dahlia Rose was the most powerful being on the planet. Already jacked-up on archangel juice, she had super-spelled her way to gaining complete control of said angel’s power. And here she was, prattling with ants. Why, all she had to do was snap her fingers, like that big, purple guy with the glove—and none of them would exist. Still, some _could_ be useful—never know when Michael’s sword will come in handy (as soon as she figures out how Dean’s doing that) and of course, with the dreamwalker, Dahlia would travel to countless dimensions. The rest—especially that pretentious Rowena, she’d scrub like soap scum.

As Dahlia pressed her fingers together, a crackling bolt of power shot past her, leaving a sparkling rip in mid-air. The rift. Rowena MacLeod was such a non-threat, such a minus to the witch, she had barely noticed she was still there. Dahlia chuckled, “You know, Rowena, you’ve got about as much chance of getting me through that thing as being invited back to The Grand Coven.”

As the older witch laughed at her, Rowena glared, stating flatly, “Oooh, wha’ a world, wha’ a world.”

“You’ve always been mad. What are you blathering—"

Dahlia turned her hands back to front. Light glowed under the dark witch’s skin, like hot embers, cracking the surface.

“You’re melting, dearie.”

The dark witch clutched her face, in horror, feeling the skin droop—then blister. 

“W-w-what?” Dahlia tried to heal herself, but her newfound power seemed to be disintegrating, along with her body.

“You learned how to control an archangel, before you figured out how to contain one?” Cas stepped closer and raised a glowing hand, his own eyes shining blue and fierce with power. His voice boomed over the surge, “She’ll go nuclear, help me!”

Dahlia Rose was in a state. She screamed as her body swelled and convulsed from the immense force inside it. Stray bolts of pure intensity burst from her, as grace oozed from her skin, surrounding her feet in incandescence. 

Rowena began to conjure, concentrating her power and throwing all she had at the erupting witch—who staggered back a step. Cas turned up the smite, but after a few more steps, Dahlia drew on her waning power and slowed.

As Dahlia moved back, Dean was dragged along through the air toward her. Still unable to scream, his struggling only managed to flip him over and float him even higher—just as well, with the Smitey McSmiterson twins showing off their guns. 

Dahlia began to step back slowly again, and again, and again, while both Rowena and Castiel stepped forward, bearing their powers into her, with all their might.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

Though the witch continued to ignite and ooze, her screeching deepened in timber, then ceased, as she held her ground, just in front of the rift.

“This game of deception is over.”

Nick was on his feet, his mouth restored and grinning wildly, “Michael!”

Pinned upside down, in mid-air, Dean Winchester had a ridiculous thought: _This would look WICKED cool, if anyone could see me_.

Someone could. 

Michael swung Dahlia’s arm wildly, making contact with Dean’s ankle and snatching ahold. Unable to budge the angel’s grip, the boy honed in on his target and took aim. As the tiki left Dean’s hand, he popped into full view, right in Jack’s line of vision.

“Dean—_OW_!”

Yahtzee.

Dean heard Sam and his Mom screaming his name, as he gestured wildly at Jack to pick up the tiki. “Make a wish! Jack, you can end this!”

Understanding dawned on the teen’s face, as he scooped up the ebony object, with the exaggerated, fierce expression. Jack clutched it tight and closed his eyes. 

Michael’s Dahlia suit began to bulge, obscenely, his swollen grip on Dean slipping. Fiery light shown from his mouth, as he spoke. “Lucifer’s vessel. You are now useful,” said it’s glowing mouth, opening impossibly wide.

Nick stood in front of Michael, his spread his arms wide and threw his head back, “Yes! Take me!”

Suddenly Jack dove across the floor, to the disintegrating figure’s feet and shouted, “Hobble him!” just as Dean crashed down next to him.

Later, Dean was sure he’d be embarrassed that it took him a beat to catch on—after all, he’d taught the kid this trick.

Both teens grabbed the laces on the glowing boots and got to work, as Castiel began to march toward his charges and the danger they were in, raising his other hand and adding to the steady stream of energy he was throwing at the evil. Michael’s open mouth collapsed into the rest of his vessel’s hot mess. He staggered back, toppling backwards off tied-together boots and falling through the shriveling rift. As a deafening explosion echoed from the world beyond, Rowena and Cas holstered their powers. The angel quickly closed the space between himself and the boys, reaching down to snatch them away from danger.

“NOOOOOOO! It was _my_ turn!” Nick launched himself over Cas and through the rift, just before it closed with a _POP!_

Cas scooped up Jack and Dean and hugged the teens close, as Mary and Sam spread their arms and joined them.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving this cuddle party and all,” Dean’s muffled voice came inside Cas’ coat, “but it’s hard to feel good when you know you just screwed over some other world.”

“If he survived, Michael will find himself quite ineffectual there.”

The group looked up at Rowena, as the dreamwalker added,

“We sent him to a universe entirely populated by squirrels.”


	35. Big Baby

What was left of Michael’s old vessel was prepared for a hunter’s funeral. As Sam and Mary wrapped the body, they wondered aloud who he had been—and what had led him to becoming the vessel of an archangel. Mary’s thoughts turned to Nick. It was near dawn, by the time Rowena had used the remainder of Lucifer’s grace to open the rift to dark Kaia’s world, just long enough for the dreamwalker to slip through. Jack had hugged the girl and offered her their help, should she choose to stay, but as any Winchester could tell you, a world with family and monsters is preferable to one with only monsters.

In the silence that followed, Dean clapped his hands once and rubbed them together, with surety. “Well, I guess it’s time I graduate from high school and get back to being a hunter. So, Rowena, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Rowena’s penciled eyebrows rose, “Dean, darling, considering your recent antics, I’d say that’s quite up to your Daddies, hmm?”

Dean looked from Sam to Cas’ stern faces, in utter shock. The teen found himself unable to meet his brother’s steely gaze and Cas—Cas looked like an angelic brick wall, as he folded his arms across his chest. Desperately, Dean turned to his Mom, but Mary’s disappointment in her son was palpable. 

“But, we won, it’s over. And me and Jack, we—"

“Worried us all sick. You concealed yourself from us, Dean. And Jack, _you lied_.” Cas’ words held the levity of a courtroom judge, reading an arraignment.

“The world was on the line and you behaved like mischievous children. You had to know that you wouldn’t get away with this, that there’d be consequences.” Both boys looked at the floor, fully understanding Sam’s sentencing.

Sam grasped his brother’s arm, “C’mon, Dean, let’s get this over with.”

As he was pulled toward a chair, Dean sputtered, “Now? Here?” He tried to pull back, whining, “Sammy, no. Please, man—not in front of everyone. Not in front of the damn wicked witch.”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving before me work is done, Dean.” Sitting back, Rowena waved a dismissive hand. “Carry on, Samuel. Please pretend I’m not even here.”

Dean flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger, then shouted a final protest, as he landed face-down across Sam’s lap. “Please, Sam, don’t let them see me blubber, like an infant—please?”

“Well, if the damn wicked witch knows a thing or two about curses, I’m hoping you won’t.”

Jack averted his eyes, as Sam swung his large hand down on the seat of Dean’s jeans, with a loud _whack_. Dean opened his mouth to howl, but instead said, “Ow!,” more from surprise, than pain. As Sam settled into a rhythm, Dean began to realize that getting his teen backside spanked publicly felt more shameful, than undignified. He absolutely hated feeling all eyes on him, in his predicament, but a moment later, that changed, when he heard Jack yelp—from over Cas’ lap.

Neither boy took his punishment completely stoically, though Dean didn’t kick up a fuss until near the end, while Jack struggled and cried out long before Cas decided he was finished. When they let the boys back up, Sam and Cas stood to face their humbled charges. Then, both boys were stunned speechless, when Sam grabbed ahold of Jack and Dean felt Cas’ iron grip. Having effectively traded spankees, the adults sat, upended the squirming teens, and got right back down to the business of roasting their backsides.

By the time the boys were set back on their feet, they looked thoroughly contrite, sniffling and gingerly trying to rub the sting out.

Dean mumbled, “Cas spanks _a lot_ harder than Sam.”

Jack swiped at his eyes and gave his friend a sympathetic glance. “I knew it was wrong to lie—it didn’t feel right.” 

“You were just looking out for me—again. Neither of us thought it was fair to turn me into a baby.” Dean dragged his sleeve across his nose. “Huh, now look at me. _Big_ blubbering baby.” 

Sam rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But you’re not exactly _blubbering_, Dean. And you didn’t holler, not anything like before.” 

“Trust me, you guys lit my ass up. I’ll be able to feel it in my thirties.”

Sam gave Dean’s shoulder a shake, “Do you hear yourself, Dean? Rowena was right—the curse died with Dahlia.”

Dean had been so uncomfortable having his punishment witnessed, that he hadn’t appreciated how _normal_ it felt. Getting spanked had sucked, but it was just a hard spanking—that’s exactly how it felt _and_ he could say so. 

“I’m sorry I worried everyone. Thanks for, uh, giving a shit about me.”

Cas’ stern look finally softened. “We give a great deal of shit about you, Dean.”

Dean rushed to hide his tears, disappearing into the safety of Cas’s trench coat and Jack leaned into Sam’s arms, immediately after.

Rowena let out a long-suffering sigh. The fun part was over. She smoothed her red hair, took a big gulp of brandy, and pulled out a compact mirror. “Where’s the loo?”

Before the witch returned, Mary put her arms around her son and they headed to Dean’s room, where the teen _certainly wasn’t _planning to cuddle with his Mom.

Sam patted Jack on the back, as he stepped out of their embrace. “We’ll expect better from you, from here on in, Jack. When Dean is returned to his age, you won’t have his influence, as an excuse.”

“I know, Sam and I feel regret. Not because I was punished, but because I caused you all so much distress. And I deceived you, Cas.”

Distracted, Cas nodded, his face odd.

“I _am_ sorry, Cas, I—”

Cas raised a palm. “Do you _feel_ it, Jack?”

“Do I feel…what?”

Cas splayed his hands out, toward the floor, then knelt, lowering his palms.

Slowly, Jack crouched down next to Cas, copying the angel. After all the action it had seen the previous night, the floor was unblemished, save for a few stray scuff marks.

Cas grabbed Jack’s hand and pressed it to the cold cement, then slid it slowly until—

“It’s warm, here, almost hot.”

Sam joined them and felt around the surface, “I don’t feel anything.”

Jack touched different areas, then stopped again near where Cas’ hands lay. This time, the heat he felt thrummed with an energy the boy couldn’t quite feel, so much as sense.

Sam still looked at a loss, “What is it?”

“It’s Grace,” said Jack.


	36. In Time

“Do I look like a scullery maid?”

“There’s been so much energy, so recently in the bunker, that I couldn’t be sure, at first.” Cas was on his knees, feeling out and tracing the outline of grace, in holy oil. “So much force, concentrated here. This is where the vessel fell. And along here, here’s where Dahlia walked, when Michael was bleeding out of her. The part of Jack that was angel can sense it, but I can almost hear it calling. The floor is saturated with archangel grace.”

“I _said_, do I _look_ like a scullery maid?”

“Take it easy, Rowena. Nobody wants you to clean the damn floor.” Helpful or not, the witch was on Mary’s last nerve.

Sam looked up from an Enochian text, “We need a transference spell. Something that will open Jack’s angel side and expose the space where his grace _was_.”

“Then our Nephilim sponge will clean the floor.”

Sam made a face, but nodded. Dean wasn’t wrong.

Cas finished the outline and stood. “It wants Jack. I didn’t fully sense it until he got close. If we create the opportunity, it’ll go to him.”

“D’we even know if there’s enough there t’bother with? What if it’s not enough to restore the boy?”

“It doesn’t matter, Rowena!” Mary took a deep breath, then checked her temper, “Jack went up against an archangel, without his powers. And he could have asked for the rest of Lucifer’s grace for himself, but instead he insisted we use it to get the girl back to her world. Don’t you think he deserves for us to try?”

“And I’m over here waiting for my junk to drop while you decide if you’re gonna help him, so shit or get off the cauldron.”

Rowena broke into a snicker first, then Jack joined in until they were all laughing—except Dean. “Fine, fine, you all think it’s so funny, you try it. Let’s see how mature and responsible you all acted at this age.” Dean’s air quotes only stood to feed the laughter, further.

Sam absolutely guffawed. “Dean, you wished yourself invisible with the Tiki of Kane!”

“Hey, it worked, sort of, and—wait, you knew we had that thing and never used it?”

Sam motioned toward the box where he had carefully locked away the object, “There’s no way to make a wish specific enough to get what you really want. Tiki’s are cursed, Dean—c’mon, you’ve seen the Brady Bunch.”

“I thought I’d covered all my bases, but both Michael and that witch could still see my soul. But Jack made a wish and Michael went through the rift, right?”

“I didn’t have much time to think, Dean—I’m pretty sure I simply wished for us to win.”

“Same thing.”

“I mean,” Jack motioned from Dean to himself, “_us._”

Dean shook his head, “Well, that explains how you came up with the Scooby Doo pratfall.”

“Like you said, Dean, it worked—sort of. But not because of any thought or planning. You boys both got very lucky.”

“But Cas, a tiki _is_ a luck charm.”

“Is there anyone here still interested in real magic or should I go get some beauty sleep?”

“She sure could use—ow!”

“Yes, Rowena. I’m very interested in your magic,” said Jack.

“You still hit like a girl.”

Jack lay still on the floor, with the others around him, Rowena and Cas’s hands spread wide over the young man. Dean had to hand it to Rowena, for all Dahlia’s pomp, their little red witch had some chops. As she chanted, tendrils of bright grace rose from the cement, all around Jack and settled in a small pool over his chest.

“Is that all of it?” Mary asked, softly. 

“I think so, but while it’s drawn to him, it’s not his own grace. He’ll have to invite it in.” Cas knelt and placed a hand on Jack’s forehead, leaning down to speak in the boy’s ear. Jack’s lips parted and the light filled his mouth, as his back arched violently off the floor. Cas kept his hand on Jack’s forehead and stood with him, as his body rose, glowing hotly. The others backed up and shielded their eyes, as the son of Lucifer landed easily on his feet, flanked by the echo of his enormous Nephilim wings. His eyes glowed golden before the light subsided and Jack Kline smiled at his family.

“Wow, does that feel good.”

“Jack’s back, woo-hoo!” Dean punched the air, frat boy-style.

Cas moved his hand to Jack’s shoulder. “It was a small amount and though from an archangel, it’s not native to your body. You’re not fully charged, but in time, it’ll acclimate and your abilities will return. You’ll just need to go slow for—”

Jack brushed past Cas and stood before Dean, placing his hands on the teen’s chest. “Rowena, you can get that sleep now—_I got this_.”

“Jack, I said you’re not—”

There was yellow light and a gust a wind and then there stood a thirty-three-year-old Dean Winchester—in skin-tight capri-length jeans and a half-shirt torn at the seams.

“Fully powered yet.” Cas’ words tapered off as they all stared in shock at adult Dean, painfully crammed inside his teen-sized Levis. Rowena smirked behind a face-palm.

“I-I’m sorry, Dean, I guess that I—”

Dean jumped up high, again air-punching, wildly.

“Woo-hoo! Dean Winchester’s back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791172


End file.
